ΚΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ
by LoverBoi2000
Summary: Perseus didn't believe it. He couldn't believe it. Alexandros was supposed to be immortal, a demigod like the heroes of old. But then again, even those heroes died. The gods were fickle, and even they could not deny fate. Now, stuck in a world he doesn't understand, Perseus is forced to play a role he is ill-prepared for. Ancient Greece!AU beta'd by Vanadium Oxide
1. I: Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own PJO/HOO/KC/MCGOA**

**Series Information:**

**Title: **ΚΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ

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**Summary:** Just as he had predicted, a great competition is held over Alexander the Great's corpse. Except even he could not have predicted the competition that was waged over it. Tens of thousands dead, among them his best troops and most trusted advisors; friends turned to enemies in the blink of an eye; Loyalists turned into Usurpers, Usurpers turned to Loyalists. The political landscape Alexander's successors create is one fraught with danger with every move. One false step means death. One right step means control of the world.

In the midst of this chaos, one of Alexander's generals, Perseus, seeks to make his claim to history. Though how he should do it, by either supporting Alexander's family or staking his own claim to the Throne, is unclear to him. Heartbroken by the death of his great friend, Perseus finds himself in Athens, where he meets with a passionate young woman who changes his view of things.

Annabeth is not one to sit back and let others tell her what to do. Raised in that setting, the intelligent teenager fights back against her oppressors at every turn - even against her own family. She's not just passionate but ambitious too. Annabeth knows her place in the world and is more than willing to claw her way into it. When Perseus, one of Alexander's triumphant generals, marches into Athens, she thinks she may have a path into power.

Meanwhile, the other generals fight for control of Asia, Europe, and Africa. Ptolemy sits in Egypt, building his power; proud Antigonus broods in Turkey; powerful Antipater feuds with Alexander's mother in Macedon. They fight with each other and against each other at every turn, scorching the world underneath their massive armies. Through this, Alexander's family has to navigate a perilous rope to even survive, much less rule.

And West, in Italia, a fledgling city-state called Rome is caught in the second war against the barbarian Samnites. Already at war with the Southern Italian tribe for two decades, a new citizen, named Jason, works to restructure the Roman army in order to be a player not just in Italy but in the whole of the Mediterranean. But Rome is not alone in its quest for domination.

On his deathbed, Alexander said control of his empire would fall "to the best." Trouble is, everyone thinks they're the best.

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**Age Restrictions: **Read the warnings and rating. Be your own judge.

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**Rating:** M for Violence, Sex, Drugs, Underage, Non-consent, and Language

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**Warnings: **Paganism, Certain Anti-Religious Themes, Extreme Violence, Underage Sex, Rape/Assault, Sex, Major Character Death

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**Relationships: **TBD but for Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

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**Characters:** PJO, HOO, KC, and Historical Figures

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**Themes: **War, Romance, Friendship, Leadership, Royalty, Political Strife, Feminism, Racism, Environmentalism

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**Expected Number of Books: **5

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**Expected Words per Book: **300k minimum || 600k maximum

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**Expected Number of Chapters per Book: **30 minimum || 60 maximum

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**Expected Words per Chapter: **10k minimum || 18k average || 40k maximum

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**Expected Time Between Updates: **lol

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**Publish Date: **8/19/2019

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**End Date: **TBD

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**Greek Words to Know:**

_katarκhes _(ΚΑΤΑΡΧΕΣ): the creator

_somatophylax, somatophylakes_: the royal bodyguards of Alexander the Great, who became more or less his top commanders instead of bodyguards by the time of his death

_navarkhos, navarkhoi_: a supreme naval leader, akin to a modern-day admiral

_khiliarkhos, khiliarkhoi_: the commander of the Companion Cavalry under Alexander the Great

_hipparkhos, hipparkhoi_: commanders of units of Cavalry

_taxiarkhos, taxiarkhoi_: commander of a taxeis, or a grouping of around 1,300 men

_stategos, strategoi_: a military general, usually a commander of an army or of a garrison

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"Pale Death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings." — Horace

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**I**

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In the sweltering heat of Babylon, a messenger's footsteps pounded along the sandstone floors of Nebuchadnezzar's palace. He ran through twisting hallways where not a week before the Lord of Asia had partied and drank himself into a stupor. That stupor had lasted for the rest of the week, before finally ending on this cloudy night. With the end of the stupor, came the end of Alexandros the Great, King of Macedon, Thrace, Hellas, Asia, and India. He was no more, only a legend for history to remember.

But as of yet, no one knew. None but his most trusted advisors and friends in life, the _somatophylakes_, along with those who had sailed his armies around the world and had scaled the walls of Malhi with him. They gathered in his room, watching his dead body. None spoke, afraid that if they gave words to the truth, their words would become the truth. Outside the room, only the messenger was aware, though no doubt the Queen knew as well.

In the room of a now-dead king, the _somatophylakes _sat in morbid silence: Perseus, Lysimachos, Peithon, Leonnatos, Perdikkas, Ptolemaios, and Peucestas; there was the _navarkhos_, Nearchos; there was the scribe, Eumenes. Others of importance not yet been informed. They were excluded from the inner circle in the King's life and would be excluded too in his death. Foremost among those who had been excluded was Kassandros, Antipatros's son. The men in the room anxiously awaited his arrival, and what that might mean for the whole situation. The ten in the room agreed with Alexandros's utopian vision of the world, but they all knew that Kassandros and his father did not. Once he arrived, his lone contrarian voice could send the army into a frenzy.

Perdikkas, not only a _somatophylax _but also the _khiliarkhos _of the Companions, sat by the fallen king's bedside, his hand firmly clenched in on itself. Perdikkas was similar in age to Alexandros but opposite in much else. Even seated, Perdikkas was a tall man, lean and almost gangly. Whereas the King held blonde hair and had mismatched eyes, Perdikkas had brown hair and two brown eyes. The King kept himself clean-shaven, but Perdikkas allowed himself a strong beard. Like the rest of the _somatophylakes_, Perdikkas had dressed himself in his most ceremonious garb, a Persian dress.

All of them had fresh, wet tears mixing with older ones. To them, Alexandros was far more than a King. He was a friend, a companion, to some a lover, to others a god. None yet knew what to do in his absence. They had all heard his dying words, "to the best," but none knew what it really meant. They had all seen his final, dying action. The King had removed his signet ring, his symbol of power, and had placed it into Perdikkas's clenched hands. Since that moment minutes ago, the ring had yet to leave the _khiliarkhos_'s clenched fist.

The messenger burst out of the castle, his strong legs accustomed to running out of the palace with urgent messages, but no other message had ever been as urgent as this. Soon others would follow behind him, to take messages to Antigonos and Krateros, to Antipatros and Phokion, to Taxiles and Porus. Inside the palace, the trusted of Alexandros continued their silent contemplations. Outside, the messenger ran as fast as his legs could take him to the first horse station. The horse he was given was the fastest, for he had presented his papers of urgent royal business to the horse master. On the horse's hooves hung the fate of the Argead dynasty.

Though they had not said much, the men next to the dead king's body had all quickly agreed on one thing — the messenger needed to alert Olympias, the dowager queen. They had silently written a note, and Perdikkas had, with trembling hands, used Alexandros's signet ring to seal the document. The dynasty needed to be secured, and the only way it could be secured was through Olympias being up to date before any of the other generals, generals who did not share Alexandros's vision, could act. Olympias needed to put her weight behind the Queen's unborn child in order for the empire to survive.

There was another contender for the throne, the half-wit Arridaios. Arridaios, Alexandros's half-brother, was not a competent king but he would have his backers nonetheless. Krateros and Antipatros had a different vision for this new world than the Great King. They did not wish to see a half-Persian king on the Makedonian throne. It would be through Olympias's protection of Alexandros's Queen Rhoxana that the Argead line would be secured.

The horse master handed the messenger the thin, worn, leather reins of his swiftest horse. The beautiful white horse had been bred for its endurance and was requisitioned by Alexandros for the most urgent of matters. Swinging himself into the saddle, the messenger took off in haste with the most urgent of urgent matters. As if through some divine connection, the moment the messenger departed the stable, the room spoke.

"We know what we must do," Perdikkas said, his solemn tone like a dagger shattering an urn. The rest of the men in the room turned to him. Their faces said everything. Then their mouths gave their expressions words.

"We have _no _idea what to do," Ptolemaios replied. The _somatophylax_ had esteemed himself to Alexandros by capturing Bessus, the last Persian to proclaim himself the Shahanshah of Persia. Ptolemaios had served with distinction ever since. Twelve years Perdikkas's elder, the forty-four-year-old did not like being told what to do by the _khiliarkhos_. Of course, there was also the rumor that Ptolemaios was actually Alexandros's older half-brother, which even Alexandros himself had put some stock in. Though if true, it would have given Ptolemaios a greater claim over the Makedonian throne than Alexandros — for Ptolemaios's mother was, unlike Alexandros's, a full Makedonian — Ptolemaios never pressed the issue with the _basileus_. Perhaps now that he was dead Ptolemaios would push his claim.

Ptolemaios looked to his closest supporter in the room, Perseus. Unlike the rest of the _somatophylakes_, Perseus was not Makedonian. Or at least none knew who his parents were. Perseus had been born and raised in Makedonia, yet was not of noble blood. A disciple of Olympias, Perseus made his way to the king's side before the Makedonians battled the Skythians at Jaxartes. Upwards in the ranks he had worked, a diligent if sometimes naïve soldier and a brilliant warrior. Unlike the rest of the _somatophylakes_ who were all _hipparkhoi_, Perseus decided to stay a taxiarch, with the infantry. In response to his refusal of a promotion, Alexandros had bestowed the honor of being a _somatophylax _upon Perseus. It was an unprecedented move, but one that was not opposed.

He was respected by both the infantry and the officers for his decision, especially at such a young age. His lack of ambition made him trustworthy, as the two factions — infantry and cavalry — would confide in him their troubles with the other side. He was a good listener, everyone said, but not many people were willing to listen to young Perseus's advice. Ptolemaios and Alexandros had both taken an interest in the young man — and rumor had it that Perseus had graced Alexandros's bed on more than one occasion.

"We must secure his empire," Nearkhos finished for Perdikkas. At that, Ptolemaios rolled his eyes. The two men were usually friendly, but these were not usual times. Nearkhos always stood out in Alexandros's council, a Kretan in a room of Makedonians. But he had proven himself time and again, his most famed exploit coming when he led half of Alexandros's army from the Indus River all the way to Babylon, through the treacherous great seas. Though respected, Nearkhos was an outsider, even amongst the forward-thinking _somatophylakes_. Such basic statements should have been beyond Nearkhos, Perdikkas thought.

"We must immediately inform the army."

All eyes turned to Leonnatos as if he had sprouted a second and third head and had become Kerberos. The bodyguard, who had leapt into battle with the King at Mahli and dragged his near-dead body out of the throes of battle, shifted uncomfortably under the weight of their eyes. Not accustomed to this new world, a world without Alexandros' authority, Leonnatos was not sure who to impress.

"We must, truly! If we do not tell them soon —"

"We saw what happened at Opis! At Hyphasis! The army barely listened to Alexandros! You expect _us_ to control the army! Krateros and Perseus would have a hard time! They'll riot!" Lysimachos spoke with more bite than he had while the King was alive. The King trusted Lysimachos with his life but there was a visible wall the _somatophylax_ had put up between him and the King. Deferring to him always, Lysimachos was a quieter voice of reason during war councils.

"And if we don't tell them, Lysimachos?" Leonnatos gestured outside, to point out the doom that lay outside the walls of the ancient palace. While he seemed to be playing for the army's support, he searched the room for the support of his peers. "If we don't tell them soon, they will find out on their own. And then what? We are now the perpetrators of some plot to kill the king in their minds! Tell them now! Let them mourn while we decide on a plan. They mourned after Mahli, and the king was not even dead. They will mourn now."

"A lot has changed since Mahli," Perseus replied. Seated, his arms were folded in a triangle, with his head perched on top of his clenched fists. Growing up in a royal setting had given the youngest man in the room the confidence to butt in at any time. Perseus had been known to interrupt the king on more than one occasion. Luckily for the _strategos_, Alexandros liked both his looks and loyalty well enough to let some insolence slide.

"Give us a few days, Leonnatos," Perdikkas butted in. The signet ring of Alexandros, what should have been his definitive proof of succession, was clenched in Perdikkas's tight fist. The _khiliarkhos_ thought himself the new leader, or at the very least regent, or Alexandros's empire. He expected obedience, but what he failed to realize was that now was not the time for blind loyalty. Besides, these were not the men to blindly follow him.

"A few days to do what, exactly? I thought it was all decided," Ptolemaios said. "Did you not have a plan? A plan to do something with that ring of yours?"

"Don't try and make a fight where there is peace, Ptolemaios. I'm doing what the Great King told me to do! Gave me the authority to do!" Perdikkas brandished the clenched fist around as if a _strategos_ waving around an enemy's battle standard. "He gave _me_ his signet ring! To protect him while his son builds strength in his mother's womb!"

"We don't actually know if it will be a son," Ptolemaios shot back. He stood from his chair, eyes stuck on Perdikkas. Since the two men were of equal height, there was no power difference. Glaring at each other, neither man gave an inch. "And Alexandros gave you his ring but not his words! His words were 'to the best.' Not to you, Perdikkas. Not to any of us!"

Ptolemaios gestured to the rest of the room, turning to face them. "We must do this as the Great King would have wished —"

"The Great King wished for me to lead, do not dwell in your fancy dreams Ptolemaios. Our King dwelt in his and look where he is now! Practicality, not idealism, will win us this battle!"

"Don't interrupt me while I speak, Perdikkas. We are all of equal rank now. None above the other, as we have been for many, many years. _We_, not you, decide what to do."

The two men were in each other's faces, hands on their sword hilts. Men who were for so long friends, now rivals. Alexandros was the center of their world, and with him gone the pieces came crashing down. Tension, so long alleviated by his presence, caused the bands to fray.

Perseus stepped forward to relieve some of that tension. He placed his hands on the chests of the two men. As Perseus guided both men back to their chairs, the rest of the room let out a sigh of relief. Everyone's hands left their sword hilts, an instinctive habit when egos collided at Makedonian gatherings. A cool evening breeze wafted in from the Euphrates.

"There are three real options presented before us. One, we go with Arridaios. Two, we go with Herakles. Three, we go with Rhoxana's unborn child, no matter the gender." Perseus presented another option that had yet to be considered. Herakles was the child Alexandros had already had, but the boy was a bastard from a Rhodian mother. Twice the problems as Rhoxana's child would have. As he gave the assembled men their options, Perseus tacitly sided with Ptolemaios. He had given the assembly a choice, something the _khiliarkhos _was none too happy about. Perdikkas looked more than a little upset. "We all know the problems with each. Arridaios is an invalid, Herakles is a bastard, on top of which he is only half-Makedonian, and Rhoxana's child will also be half-Makedonian. And if Rhoxana's child is female, that would be the last straw for the army."

"Then what do you propose?" Peithon, one of the _somatophylakes_, inquired. An ally of Perdikkas, he spoke with the bite of a man who had distrusted Perseus's intimacy with the king. There were many soldiers who had become disaffected by Perseus's rapid rise to the top of the ranks.

"We need to explore all three routes. We have a few days to sort it out before we must tell the army. Then we give them their sacred duty, to decide the next king of Makedonia. For now, it is us. We must decide what each path would look like. And we must do so with as little input from Kassandros as possible. Furthermore, we need to summon Krateros back immediately."

Ptolemaios watched Perdikkas throughout the whole of Perseus's speech. The clenched fist was clenched even more and the esteemed horseman was biting his lip in frustration. Perseus had so easily commandeered strategic discussions in the past, much to Perdikkas's chagrin, but this was a whole new level. Perdikkas's annoyance brought some amount of joy to Ptolemaios, who had been feeling sour ever since the announcement of the King's illness.

"Speaking of which," Nearkhos said, looking up from the ground which had previously captivated him. "Does no one else here find it odd that we summoned Antipatros, but got Kassandros instead? That Kassandros shows up and the king now lies died, only a few days later? And let us not forget that it is another of Antipatros's sons that pours the King's wine."

It was not too far of a stretch to pin the blame for the King's death on Antipatros and his sons; the fact that the council felt ready to blame someone for the King's death just served to make it more real. The King truly was dead. A few glanced back at the King's dead body for a long, mournful stare. Perdikkas closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and broke the pregnant silence. "Those are serious charges, and if you went about and accused Kassandros without proof, it would not go well."

"I'm not going to accuse him without proof. I have no proof. Only a suspicion."

"A suspicion you would do well not to ignore." Ptolemaios counseled, perhaps just to speak against Perdikkas.

"Kassandros and his father were always against us and our vision. And Krateros, though he was loyal… well, I don't trust any of them." Lysimachos came to Nearchos's defense. Unnecessary, considering that the rest of the room seemed to agree with Nearchos.

"We must treat them all as hostile actors," the _khiliarkhos_ replied. "We are in agreement on that. And Nearkhos, if you wouldn't mind… get that proof."

Nearkhos nodded, happy to have had some say, for even in a room of Makedonians of the new guard, there was still prejudice.

"Kassandros will come in here… and soon. I think we know his pick of the three choices. And the army's pick."

"We will have to prepare, and choreograph this wisely. One false step —"

"—and we're dead," Ptolemaios finished for Perdikkas.

Outside, the messenger bolted down Cyrus's great royal road. The horse's hooves pounded along the stone foundations laid down centuries before. In front of him laid the beauty of Hellas; of Athens and Sparta, of Mount Olympos and the Aegen Sea, of Pella and the Makedonian countryside, the home of an empire built in only decades. Behind him was that empire, an empire established on top of Cyrus's great one and expanded upon into the Mountains of Sogdiana and the Jungles of India. All of it, from Illyria to the Indus river, from the Nile to the Skythian border, depended on the swiftness of a horse and rider.

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**Ω**

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**Foreword****:**

**Ever since I ended the original **_**ΠΟΡΘΙΤΙΣ**_ **story, I knew I had to outdo it if I wanted to retain your loyalty. I am such a shit updater, and the two stories where I've gotten a decent following I quickly abandoned them. I blame it on the fact that I am a perfectionist when it comes to my stories.**

**To that end, I have poured dozens of hours into researching this story. Whether it be through playing ****_AC Odyssey_**** (which, I'll admit, was not entirely for research purposes only) or through reading histories of the Wars of the Diadochi or through getting lost for hours in my Classical Civilization reference book, I have put a lot of effort into making this as historically accurate as possible. Culturally, I will try to aim for as much immersion as I can fit. Will that always is complete cultural-historical accuracy? By no means. I cannot hope to emulate how the Ancient Greeks spoke or wrote in a way that will be entertaining to you as an audience and also enjoyable to write for myself. But many of the cultural points touched upon earlier will be followed through. So prepare for that to the best of my abilities.**

**I am super excited to present this world to you all, for I have spent a lot of time crafting the characters and fleshing out their environments. This has taken direct inspiration from A Song of Ice and Fire and its fanfictions, which are some of the best fanfictions out there. All of George R.R. Martin's characters are varying shades of grey, and just because they are lighter shades of grey does not mean that they will come out on top. It's the beauty of his work. I have wanted to apply that to the PJO/HOO fandom for a long time because I have rarely seen it done. There are a few really good ones out there, including ****_Beautiful _****by Forfun1000. Yet the scale that I wish to reach has never been done before on this site. Five books at least, spanning perhaps up to a million words each, across multiple continents and through the lens of many, many characters.**

**Do I expect to finish this? Yes. Do I expect to finish it anytime soon? No. But writing PJO/HOO fanfiction has become one of my favorite hobbies, and I never wish to give it up. I hope that this is my magnum opus and that you all enjoy this story. I am going to try and write as much as I can in college, but college and sports are a lot of effort. So there might be more time between each update than neither you nor I would like, depending on the length of the chapters.**

**I hope you all stick with this project, and that I do as well. I respect any and all constructive criticism, except for a few things. This work will be gruesome and terrible at some points. I will write about things that will make your stomach churn, and my characters will say and do things that are morally wrong even by their standards. Please understand that this is all part of trying to write a realistic world. No one is an angel, no one is entirely a hero(ine). So do not assume that I believe in the words that I write. I am an artist, a keyboard and google docs document are my media. Do not tell me that my work is too violent, too immoral, too sexual, or that my characters are too misogynistic, too racist, too evil. They are meant to be that way, to be imperfect, maybe in a very large sense. If you cannot take a realistic portrayal of a period in history, then this is not the work for you.**

**But please leave comments about my writing and how I can improve. As much as this story is for you all, it is also for me to learn how to improve as a writer.**

**And finally, I have made a twitter account to keep in touch with you all while I write, to give frequent updates. Follow me at **LoverBo94183834**.**

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**Historical, Cultural, and Transliteration Information**

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This story is set 2300 years before our time, in 323 BCE. The story begins in Babylon but is centered in the Mediterranean and the territories of Alexander. Because of the large time gap between the present and time period written about, there are a lot of cultural differences that I feel readers should be aware of. Additionally, I am going to write character names, place names, and Greek words in as direct a transliteration as possible. Here are some things to keep in mind as you read:

**History:**

By 323 BCE, Alexander the Great had conquered everything from Illyria in the West to the Indus River in the East. In fact, he only stopped at the Indus River, not because of military failure but because his troops were exhausted from constant warfare for thirteen years. From India, he marched his troops back to Babylon, where he intended to begin another campaign, this time into Arabia. However, he died mysteriously the week before the invasion was to begin. If he had lived, Alexander could have created an empire that rivaled the Mongols in scope and the Romans in cultural influence.

What happened after his death was confusing. His generals, the _Diadochi_ (successors) fought over his territory for thirty-some-odd years before they all finally died. Their children continued the fight, though less vigorously, for centuries. In the East, in Persia and Turkey, Seleucus I Nicator, Seleucus the Victor, and his successors ruled the largest portion of land until they were defeated by both the Parthians and the Romans. In Macedon, Antigonus I Monopthalmus (the one-eyed) ruled along with his successors until their defeat by the Romans in around 160 BCE. And in Egypt, Ptolemy I Soter (the Savior) gave his children the longest reign of any successor, and their empire lasted till around 30 BCE, at which point the Romans, headed by Augustus, defeated Cleopatra and Marc Antony. Cleopatra, in fact, is not Egyptian but is Greek. She lived closer to our time than the time of the construction of the Pyramids.

In the West, Rome and Carthage expanded at the expense of their Latin, Samnite, and Greek neighbors. Both of these states were given little notice by the far more powerful Successor Kingdoms of the time. Carthage had more status due to their trading empire, but Rome and Italy were backwaters. However, through tremendous effort, both empires expanded slowly but surely. When the two empires fought their climatic wars over the course of 100 years, Rome emerged victorious. By 146 BCE Rome was the undisputed power in the Mediterranean, having defeated Carthage and Antingonid Macedon.

In the East, taking advantage of the vacuum caused by Alexander's death, Chandragupta Maurya stormed through the Magadha Empire and the Eastern-most provinces of Seleucus's empire, creating the Mauryan empire. Meanwhile, in Greece, the city-states that had for so long been free fought back vigorously against Macedonian rule. Not a single revolt succeeded.

However, that history is not the history my story will follow. There are two key differentiating factors in my story: the introduction of new characters and the idea that the Greek gods were indeed real. Instead of just being worshipped, the Greek world will have gods as active as they were in _the Iliad _and _the Odyssey_ and other epics. The reader will find these gods far different than Rick Riordan's Greek Gods.

Other historical facts to note:

Rome is still a republic, but one that is undergoing serious difficulties with who should get representation and who should represent them, additionally

Rome's armies are not the famed legion we all know and love today. These legions are far more auxiliary and less rigid than the famed Legions. It is not until the Marian reforms in the second-century BCE that the Roman Legion becomes really proficient.

Not much is known about Carthage's government, since when the Romans destroyed the city they did it really, really well; therefore the chapters on Carthage will not be extremely historically and culturally accurate like they can be in Greece or Rome.

The Greek city-states were not unified at all: Athens hated Sparta, Sparta hated Argos and Thebes, and everyone hated Macedon. Early pan-Hellenic movements called for a unification of Greece based on principles, but once those failed many voices called out to Philip of Macedon, Alexander's father, to unify Greece by force.

This was not easy, and in 335 BCE Alexander burnt Thebes to the ground for its rebellion, killing six-thousand and enslaved 30,000. Then he turned on Athens and forced the city to limit its freedom of speech by handing over the perpetrators of the revolt. It was during this time that two sides formed: pro-Macedonians (or at least pro-appeasement) including Demades and Phocion, and anti-Macedonian orators, notably Demosthenes and Hyperides.

As Alexander conquered more and more Persian territories, he became more and more Persian. His major goal was to remove the idea of races and have one unified empire of Persians and Greeks. To this end, he married Rhoxana, a young Sogdian princess for a very rebellious northern territory (around modern-day Afghanistan), adopted Persian dress, and integrated Persian soldiers into his phalanxes.

**Culture:**

Ancient Greek is very dissimilar to our own, but in many ways, we can find similarities. Personally, I believe that modern California/spin-class/kale-diet culture is more like Ancient Greek culture than anything we've experienced.

The ancient Greeks had little stigma against sex and sexuality. Homosexuality was encouraged, to an extent, and nudity was not uncommon. Brothels came in many different varieties, and sometimes young women were encouraged to spend time in them. Virginity was not so much a virtue as it is now under Abrahamic society, but was still valued, though the extent to which is unclear. Attitudes towards adultery varied from city to city, but sex outside of marriage was not seen as a sin (there is a story where one of Alexander's ancestors walked in on his wife in bed with another man, said hello, and walked the other way, closing the door on his way out). Additionally, women had differing levels of power based on where they lived. The different cultures of the city-states proved as varied as cultures of current states and even countries.

The three major cultural city centers were Athens, Sparta, and Corinth.

Athens was a pure democracy by the time of the story. All male citizens could vote, and property ownership was not a voting restriction. Men were chosen by lots to hold public office for a year, and wealthier citizens contributed to a fund that paid for poorer citizens to hold office and give up their jobs. The wealthier citizens also paid for the military, especially the navy. The Athenian Navy was the most powerful in the world for a long time. Athenians loved sex and wine and drugs and were quite liberal with their views. One of the most potent examples of this is Epicurean philosophy, which emerged at the end of the fourth-century BCE. Epicurean philosophy is a lot like Hippy philosophy of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

There were, of course, problems. Athenian democracy was expensive, both in time and wealth, leading to many poorer citizens to vote only, and not participate in speeches at the Pnyx or serve on the boards of jurors and lawmakers. Athens experienced a number of tyrants who tried to get rid of their democracy. And Athenian women were about as subjugated as Saudi women today. They were not allowed to leave the house except with a male; fathers were given supreme authority over their daughters to marry off. Women were not allowed to inherit property or order around slaves.

Sparta was far different. We might recognize it as a communist utopia, actually. Money and luxury were banned; all houses were made of rough wood so as to prevent differentiation and competition over wealth; everyone was supposed to eat in a common area so as to prevent gluttony. At the age of seven, boys were trained at the Agoge - later in Spartan history girls joined in a more abridged version. Contrary to popular belief, Spartan soldiers were not bred from birth to be super-soldiers. They were trained to be ideal citizens, which included soldiery and some fighting. Spartan women were given far more freedom than their Athenian counterparts. They had the ability to inherit property, order around slaves, and speak freely. At teenage training camps, Spartan girls and boys would dance and train nude; Spartan girls were encouraged to taunt and make fun of boys who society deemed "unfit citizens". They were expected to stay fit so as to be ideal mothers of Spartan children. One weird quirk about Spartan marriages - if a man wanted another man's wife for the purposes of breeding, all he had to do was ask. The other man could not refuse a fit man's request to mate with his wife, for Spartan marriages were for the sole purpose of producing more citizens. In other city-states, this practice was perceived as barbaric.

The Spartan government was run by two Kings, descendants of Hercules. They were assisted by a council of elders, the Gerousai, and a council of citizens, or Spartiates, called the Ephoroi. Spartiates were allowed to vote on laws in the Apella. Spartiates were full citizens, but strict citizenship rulings meant that the pool of Spartiates kept dwindling, leading to a secondary class called Perioikoi who could fill the ranks of the army, and at the bottom were helots, the Spartan slaves that built and ran their society.

Of Corinthian society, not much is known. There is one saying, however, that encapsulates what we do know: "not everyone can go to Corinth". Corinth was the Las Vegas of the Ancient World. In the Acrocorinth, the Temple of Aphrodite boasted the greatest prostitutes, known as hetairai, around the ancient world. Corinth became so wealthy that it created its own order of columns, the intricate Corinthian design. Corinthians were staunch fighters but were pursuers of wealth and luxury. They were most likely run by an oligarchy; women in Corinth had more power than Athenian women, but probably less power than Spartan women. The one exception would be the hetairai, who were not reviled but well regarded in Greek society. Hetairai were not just prostitutes but were well educated in a great many things. In Greek, Hetairai literally means "companion". They were just as good at talking philosophy or history as they were fucking out men's brains.

One other major cultural note: homosexuality and child sexuality.

The Greeks cared less about who they were penetrating than they were about who was penetrating. Greeks, like the Egyptians before them, wanted to be the penetrators. Men penetrated women, men penetrated boys. Child sex and prostitution were accepted, especially with young, prepubescent and semi-pubescent boys. Girls were married off around 12 or 13. Homosexual marriages were not permitted, for marriage at this time was all about reproduction. Lesbian relationships are far less well-known. The poet Sappho, writing from the island of Lesbos, is our best source for these relationships. Athenian attitudes towards Lesbian relationships was, well, not good. But Spartan attitudes were far more welcoming.

**Spelling:**

Taken from "Ancient Greek Tutorials ( ) created by Donald Mastronarde as complementary content for use with Introduction to Attic Greek, Second Edition (University of California Press 2013)"

The transliteration of Greek into English is sometimes confusing, because it is variable. For most letters the equivalence is easy:

alpha (α) = a

beta (β) = b

gamma (γ) = g

theta (θ) = th

phi (φ) = ph

psi (ψ) = ps, and so forth.

But because Greek words have come into English by direct coinage (scientific terms) and also by historical inheritance, from Latin via French and/or English, there are areas where alternatives exist.

Diphthong ai (αι) in modern derivatives is usually ae (via Latin) or e (via late Latin) (archaeology, archeology), but ai appears in some direct transliterations (aition, Phaiakia).

Double gamma (γγ) is usually transliterated as ng (via Latin), because this is closer to the pronunciation (angel).

Epsilon-iota (ει) often becomes i (via Latin), but also may appear in a more direct transcription as ei (note pirate and empirical in English, both from stem πειρ-; Peisistratos, Peisistratus, Pisistratus).

Eta (η) is sometimes shown as e (same as epsilon (ε)), but for precision it may also be rendered as ê or ē (eta is a long vowel, epsilon a short one) (psyche, psychê, psychē).

Kappa (κ) is sometimes k (Sophokles, Phaiakia), but very often c (via Latin, where c originally had only a hard pronunciation; but in English the c will often be pronounced soft) (Sophocles, Phaeacia [with soft c]).

Xi (ξ) is usually x (axiom), but sometimes rendered as ks.

Diphthong oi (οι) is sometimes oi (Koine), more commonly oe (via Latin) or e (via late Latin) (oenology/enology, oestrus/estrus).

Rho (ρ) is usually just r (arthritis), but when it begins a word is it rendered rh (rhythm) and when doubled it is rrh (pyrrhic victory, diarrhea), since initial rho and the second in a pair of rhos were aspirated in ancient Greek.

Upsilon (υ) by itself is usually y (via Latin and French) (psyche, sympathetic, Dionysos), but sometimes u (Dionusos).

Diphthongs au (αυ) and eu (ευ) are rendered with both letters (nautical, euphemism), but diphthong ou (ου) is commonly rendered with u alone (if y is being used for upsilon), via Latin (Epicurus, Thucydides); but sometimes in more direct transcription by ou (kouros)

Chi (χ) is most often transliterated as ch (psychology), but occasionally as kh (Akhilleus).

Omega (ω) is sometimes shown as o (same as omicron (ο)), but for precision it may also be rendered as ô or ō (omega is a long vowel, omicron is a short one) (sophrosyne, sôphrosynê, sōphrosynē).

DEALING WITH PROPER NAMES Greek-to-English dictionaries are usually very sparing in the inclusion of proper names and proper adjectives, so students need to become familiar with how to transliterate them into English. Many proper names have been Latinized before conversion into English, and therefore the ending of names is often adjusted to a Latin scheme. Greek nouns ending in -ος usually become Latin nouns in -us; Greek nouns in -ον become Latin -um; Greek nouns in -η often become nouns in -a. Hence, you will see variations like the following:

Dionysos, Dionusos, Dionysus

Hêra, Hêrê

Athêna, Athênê

Cyprus, Cypros, Kypros, Kupros

(also with a common noun: symposium, symposion)

Note also that the purist transliteration of the famous philosopher's name would be Platon (Platōn), but the Latinate version adopted by English is so familiar that one almost always sees Plato. Similarly, Thucydides is so well established in English that most people find it very offputting to see a more genuinely Greek version like Thoukudides or Thoukydides. Consistency is simply not possible. For instance, when speaking of the fourth-century BCE Syracusan Δίων, it is common to use the form Dion, but the Greek historian of the Roman empire is usually referred to by the Latinized name Dio Cassius or Cassius Dio.

The key skill the student must acquire is recognizing what the nominative of a proper name is when presented with an oblique case, because it is the nominative that needs to be transliterated. Masculine names commonly end in -ος, -ας, -ης (either first declension with gen. -ου, or third declension with gen. -ους), -ευς, -ων (gen. in -ωνος or -οντος or with contraction -ῶντος). Feminine names usually end in -α, -η, -ις, -ω. Here are some examples of proper names, mainly from the readings in Introduction to Attic Greek.

Ἄδραστος Adrastos, Adrastus

Δάµνιππος Damnippos, Damnippus

Δέξιππος Dexippos, Dexippus

Εὐφίλητος Euphiletus, Euphiletos

Ἐρασινίδης Erasinides

Ἐρατοσθένης Eratosthenes

Ἐπιµηθεύς Epimetheus

Ἑκατώνυµος Hekatonymos, Hecatonymus

Εὐρυσθεύς Eurystheus

Ἡρακλῆς Herakles, Heracles

Ἑρµῆς Hermes

Ἥφαιστος Hephaistos, Hephaestus

Θέογνις Theognis

Θράσυλλος Thrasyllos, Thrasyllus

Ξενοφῶν Xenophon

Πολυνείκης Polyneices, Polynices, Polyneikes

Τιµοκρέων Timokreon, Timocreon

Ἀσπασία Aspasia

Ξανθίππη Xanthippe

Θαΐς Thais

Σαπφώ Sappho

Ethnic and topographic proper adjectives are usually turned into English with the suffix -ian/-an.

Ἀθηναῖος Athenian

Κορίνθιος Corinthian

Πελοποννήσιοι Peloponnesians

Ῥόδιος Rhodian

Κοτυωρῖται Cotyoritans (or Cotyorites?)

Σινωπεῖς Sinopeans (sing. Σινωπεύς)

* * *

There are, of course, many more details than this. These are just basic facts to ensure that everyone has the same base from which to understand the story. For more information as to the time, I suggest the Oxford Companion to Classical Civilization, Mythology by Edith Hamilton (this is the source of my mythology in the story), The History of the Ancient World: From the Earliest Accounts to the Fall of Rome by Susan Wise Bauer, _Ghost on the Throne: The Death of Alexander the Great and the Bloody Fight for His Empire _by James S. Romm, and ancient . eu.

I have done extensive research, and I hope you all enjoy the historical accuracy and the extent to which this world will feel real. Stay tuned for update number two, two weeks from now. Thank you all so much!

* * *

**Striving to provide Southern hospitality the world over,**

**LoverBoi (yes I'm a guy)**


	2. II

**Greek Words to Know:**

paidagogos: a teacher of young boys

demokratia: democracy (literally demos + kratia: power of the people)

eleutheria: liberty or the personification of

omomokotes: magistrates of the Athenian bureaucracy

theorikon: the treasurer of Athens

hetaira, hetairai: female companions/prostitutes of ancient greece

pornai: prostitutes of lower stature than hetairai, usually found in brothels called porneion

Ariston: lunch

kylix: wide wine cup

basileus, fem. basileia: king or queen, emperor or empress

argyraspides: lit. 'the Silver-Shields'; an elite force of hypaspists, shield-and-spear bearing infantry

Elysion pedion: Elysium

pteruges: a war-skirt

doru: the hoplite's spear

kopis: a curved hunting dagger

xiphos: a short, leaf-shaped sword (Riptide is a xiphos)

pelte: a shield with a crescent indent at the top

hoplon: the big hoplite shield

sarissa: a massive, 4-6 meter long double-ended spear

ekklesia: the Athenian assembly, parliament

pezhetairoi: lit. 'foot-companions', the infantry of Alexandros's army

* * *

"But then, my friend, the gods for ills past/ healing/ have set endurance as the antidote." — Archilochus, fr. 13

* * *

**II**

* * *

As the Council debates the future of the world, Rhoxana ponders her future. In Athens, a young girl prepares for a marriage she does not want. And in Babylon, the Council confronts old divisions.

* * *

**THE QUEEN OF THE WORLD**

* * *

The messenger stood by the doorway, one forearm pressed against the heavy door for support. His arm muscles tensed up to assist his forearm as he tried, desperately, to compose himself. Even the messengers, trained to deliver any missive or command effortlessly, seemed to struggle with this message. No one was spared from the pain of the loss.

Especially not Raoxshna, the wife of Alexandros, the Princess of Sogdiana, the Queen of the World. A princess in her own right, a Queen because of Alexandros. He had given her queenship, and so much more. Love, affection, happiness. And physical things too. Great wealth, endless protection, so much food she found herself getting fat at times. Recently, he had given her a child. All of these things had come at a cost though.

Raoxshna. Her name. Not Rhoxana, like the rest of Alexandros's army called her. That name, so foreign to the Makedonians, had been stripped from her so that she could fit in amongst her King's court. Not that she much minded, for what was a name in comparison to the riches of Africa and Europe and Asia?

That was what Alexandros had given to her, a dream which was once only that. Though she was not unused to being waited on, there was a difference between what she had enjoyed as a princess of Sogdiana and what she had enjoyed as Queen of Alexandros's ever-expanding empire. As a young princess, she could expect the best of Bactria, so long as she remained within her father's limits. As Alexandros's first queen, and as his pregnant wife, she could expect her every need to be waited on with the best of the known world, without limit. She delighted herself with treats from places as exotic as India and Libya, dressed as the princesses she had admired as a young girl, and acted among her new subjects as they had acted with her. Even the loss of her firstborn could not truly dampen the happiness her marriage to Alexandros had brought her. The only thing that had dulled the flame was the arrival of the King's second and third wives, though he had assured her that she was still the top priority. He had made sure to back up his claim by keeping them in Susa while he marched back to her. Smiles and kisses she bestowed upon him in public, but in private her fury was great. So great that his generals left the two of them alone for hours while Raoxshna grilled her lover over his infidelity.

The fiery fury soon turned to fiery passion. A bonfire was lit on their bed and they had danced in it so rough and unkempt. Their love for each other overrode politics and backstabbing, wars and soldiers, the weather, the stars and the sun. The rest of the world may have seen her as a foolish girl, but she was not. The Queen knew why he had married the princesses, and it was not the same reason why he had married her. Alexandros in his turn understood he deserved to get his feet held over the fire if nothing else.

He endured a few hours of pain so that they could get back to their love. And they had, for a year. Even oblivious Perseus understood that they worked well together. Raoxshna was the woman of his dreams. Canny, strong, resourceful, the Princess of Sogdiana was not a hapless Athenian maiden. For a full year, they had each other alone. They would wake up together, he would go to his meetings and train, and then they would dine together, retiring to their rooms finally for the night. A full year of bliss.

And then it was over. Alexandros was dead, taken from her by the jealous gods he claimed first descent from and kinship with. He was…

Words escaped her comprehension, so instead, she cried. Tears wrenched themselves out of her eyes, pouring down her face in an uncontrollable flood. There was no steady increase to bawling, instead, like a dam being breached, she cried hard and fast. Her face became soaked, salt coating her tongue. She opened her mouth to wail. A gross, wretched sound ran from her mouth. Raoxshna had heard sounds like this before, from mothers crying over children lost in wars or from patients getting limbs removed. Never had she believed that she would end up like them.

Raoxshna knew the message was coming, for their Queen was not an imbecile as the rest of the men might have claimed. Alexandros had become ill and something inside of her, whether it was a lover's bond or a mother's bond, told her the terrible truth before even the healers. She had taken steps to prepare herself for the horrible truth, but as soon as the message had been delivered, her knees gave out from underneath her.

Inside her mind the mortal woman railed at the gods. "How dare you?!" she screamed. Her son, Alexandros's son, rested in her belly, unaware of his father's doom. At least consciously; her stomach was churning and she felt like she might hurl at any moment. Her son's father was gone. Her bloated belly pressed up against her knees as her body took over from her mind. Her mind was in too much shock to sustain the body, but instinct took over. Her back rested against the royal bed where Alexandros had laid beside her just a week before. She worried about her son's safety as sobs racked her body, causing violent shaking.

"My Queen… Perseus said that — that if you needed him, he could come. I-I understand how difficul—"

"Enough. You're dismissed." Raoxshna was impressed with the amount of control she had over her own words, given how little control she had over her own body. She gave just an inkling of a thought to the messengers actually words and recoiled immediately. Oh gods above… her beloved king's death would ruin this world. "Tell Perseus his services are needed elsewhere. I can… I can deal with myself."

Raoxshna couldn't take her eyes off her hands, folded over her rounded belly, but the routine had become so usual to her that there was no need to see in order to know the messenger's movements. The messenger gave a deep bow and turned out of the room, still bowed. He kept his head down as he walked away and two guards closed the door to her room. She was alone.

Alone, truly. Her son was not born yet, and as much as she could talk to him as he grew in her womb… he was not here yet. Stateira and Parysatis were of no help, instead, they were detriments. They were threats, bigger than before. Threats to her and her son. Her family was far away, ruling Bactria only through Alexandros's good graces. Now, as easily as their power had been bestowed by Alexandros, that power could be taken away by whomever decided to rule his empire. Whoever was strong enough.

She had heard all of the rumblings from his men and his generals, from his cup-bearers and courtesans, from his servants to his friends. Understanding that she was in a foreign environment, at battle as constantly as her husband, she kept her ears always open . She was infertile, they said at first. Once her firstborn never made it through, the talk was that her "inferior" blood made it impossible for her to bear Makedonian children. The first time she had heard that rumor, she had her personal guard cut out the rumor-bearer's tongue. Next, once Alexandros had bedded the two Persian princesses, and rumors began to circulate that it Alexandros who was infertile, at least with foreigners… well, she had let those rumors continue. Punishment, she supposed, for taking two extra wives.

But her fertility, Raoxshna understood, was more than just rumor and court gossip. It was the future of the greatest empire the world had ever seen. She remembered how happy Alexandros had been when he learned that she was pregnant once more. His smile had stretched from one side of his handsome face to the other. From green eye to blue eye. He had swept her up in his strong hands, swinging her about in their room — now hers alone.

It seemed as though not even the good memories were safe of this new, foul taint.

The top of her nightgown was soaked and her throat hurt from crying. Her shins ached from kneeling on the hard floors.

How was she so ill-prepared for this moment? A moment which she knew would come, if not from an injury sustained in war then from one the gods would inflict. There were so many gods now, all of them could be jealous of her husband. Or just one. It only took one, did it not?

Her eyes would run dry before she stopped crying. She had experienced rivers that had dried up like that as a child, small rivers and streams which would, during hot and dry summers, fail to keep up. The wells would dry up next causing the land itself to fragment. The people would flee in large numbers, for their village had become a place of constant strife in the mad dash to get water. She remembered her father dealing with those crises, and had used his experience when she had to deal with them on her own, as Queen of a desert wasteland. Now, as she dealt with her own well drying up, the Queen of the World could draw on no one's aid.

Hearing footsteps, Raoxshna looked up. The doors, still closed, barred her sight. She listened intensely, trying to discern the guards' words. In order to get a better sense of what they were saying, the Queen of Makedonia got an all fours. She had to crawl, for she did not trust her legs to carry both her and her child — the last true relic of Alexandros.

Once she was a few paces away from the door, she stopped herself. She listened.

"As I said, the Queen is not to be disturbed at the moment."

One of the guards, Tisias, spoke, his tone annoyed, against someone else.

"Were those her orders? Or did you all just think you could boss her around now?"

Oh, it was Perseus. Of course, it was Perseus. She had specifically instructed the messenger to tell the bodyguard not to attend to her. However, Raoxshna was a fool to think that Perseus would ever listen to that order. They had been too close of friends for him to think that her words, spoken by another, were really the truth. Not that she was too annoyed by his arrival. Even the Queen of the World needed someone to lean on every now and then.

Taking a deep breath, she called out to the guards: "let him in!" She tried to make sure her voice was strong enough to convey some sense that she was holding up. By the gods, even in her head that lie held no water. Her words probably held less, since her voice broke half-way through the command. It was too high-pitched, as if she was a serving girl once more.

Collapsing back onto the floor, she curled her knees to her chest. The pain was too much, too unbearable. And there was no use in pretending to be composed, she wondered why she had even bothered in the first place. He cared not, he was here. Though he should have been elsewhere, he had come to help her in her darkest hour.

The man she regarded as all but a brother stepped into the expansive room. He was shoeless; she could tell because all that was in her sight were his shoeless feet. The door closed behind him. He stopped.

"If you really don't want me here, I, uh, I apologize my Queen. I just thought that —"

She shook her head against her knees. After a brief interlude, her tears returned, streaming down her barren legs.

Perseus knelt, and it was at that point that Raoxshna realized how young she truly was to have experienced such heartache. They called Perseus the young one, and he was still half-a-decade her elder. No more than seventeen, how had she already lost so much? To have experienced so much war and turmoil in such a short time span? And she was about to experience so much more, for her son's ascension was not secure. She would have to be strong for him, stronger than she ever assumed she could be. But she would do it. For Alexandros, and his beautiful dream, and for her son, their son; their son who could carry out that dream.

"Rhoxana… My Queen. I am so, so sorry. I-I can't even imagine what you're going through right now."

Her head shook again. She didn't need to hear his words, no matter how genuine they were. She just needed silence. Pure silence.

"Close the windows." For the rushing of the wind and the whirling of the Euphrates had become too much.

Obediently, he stood. Still unable to look up, she could feel his presence walk away. When he had retreated far enough away, she looked straight up at the ceiling. Seeing anyone else might break her, but Raoxshna needed another's presence. Alexandros's, preferably. But Perseus would do until she was met him again in death.

The ceiling, her room in general, was beautiful, intricately carved by Nabû-kudurri-uṣur hundreds of years ago. Still in pristine condition, it was that mad king's lasting legacy on the world. What, she wondered, would be her beloved's impact on the world? What would be his legacy?

Strong arms circled around her bloated stomach, then slid below her son. They lifted upwards and for a moment Raoxshna wished that she could just slip into a fantasy world where the arms were Alexandros's, where he was still alive, and where they could rule the world with their son.

That was what dreams were for, however. For that was all that fantasy could ever be. Dreams were where she could slide into oblivion, be alone and with him. Had that not been where she laid with him the most? They were together mostly in her dreams because he was so preoccupied with his own dream. Unlike most of his men, Alexandros was able to control himself when it came to bodily pleasures. He loved her, she knew, but his true love was of knowledge and of conquest. It was his destiny to conquer the world and to rule it as an eutopia. But that destiny and that dream were dead. They had died with the dreamer.

Perseus laid her down on her bed, covered in silks and feathers, allowing her to get comfortable. This bed of hers would have to go, she realized, for it reminded her too much of him. Over the past year, as he struggled to get over the death of Hephaistion, Alexandros would come into her room and they would talk for hours. Sometimes he would sit by her side and read, sometimes to her. Their nightly encounters had become so frequent up until the moment of his death that she had almost forgotten about his marriage to the two Persian princesses. Almost.

Perseus drew the cover up above her shoulders. The light silk was perfect for the heat of the Babylonian summer. She would end up discarding it, unbeknownst to her, halfway through the night.

Though she had a strong desire to remain calm and stately, Perseus's presence fought back against that. Outside of Alexandros, he was the only one she truly trusted. She did not trust one woman in all of Babylon, for who knew who they truly worked for. This was not her city, never was her city, and never would be her city. She could, therefore, trust no one of this city; she did not even want to go into the rest of his Royal Army.

The Makedonians were prejudiced to the extreme, even those who would claim to their graves that they were not prejudiced. With Perseus it was different. He had never judged her, never said a bad word against her. When Alexandros was gone, it was Perseus that came to talk with her. He was closer in age to her than any other of Alexandros's somatophylakes. He had become like a brother to her, and, she assumed, she was like a sister to him.

"How do we go on?" Her words were raspy from crying.

Perseus sat at her bedside, running his hand over back.

"We go on for him. For your child. The council has decided that your child —"

"Alexandros."

"What?" Perseus's hand stopped, and he looked down. She didn't look at him, still afraid that the sight of another person's grief would make this all real once more. Her eyes were tightly shut; her face pressed roughly against the pillow.

"His name," she said, her voice lowered after being muffled by the pillow. "His name is Alexandros. My son. Alexandros the Fourth, King of Babylon and the World."

"How do you know your child will be a boy?"

Her warm, brown eyes opened into the blank view of her pillow. They rolled before quickly closing again. "Because what mother wishes to bring another girl into this world?"

"I always wished for a daughter."

"Of course you do. You are a man, you know not what a woman has to go through."

"I know well enough from talking to you," Perseus retorted. While her tone was rough and accusatory, bogged down by the pillow and looming sleep, his voice held none of the same bite. It was not as if he was unused to such arguments between them. "And I would never let any of the things that happen to girls happen to my daughter."

"Because you have power. You can shelter your daughter from those terrors."

"You have power too — the most power in the world!"

"And you are still a blissful fool. Perseus, I have no power whatsoever!" It was her great dilemma. She did hold power, she held him in her stomach. Even that power was conditional on the notion that the Makedonian army wanted her son to be the next ruler. Raoxshna had heard rumors of men desiring Perseus to be king. Not that he would accept it, but the idea that they would turn to a man without royal blood was scary at least.

She sat up to look at him fully, shaking off the fear of falling apart again. It was a struggle, however, because of the weight of her son. Her arms pushed down, falling into the soft feathers of her bedding. Lifting her eyes, she gazed upon his tan face for the first time tonight. It was a mistake, she immediately realized. Perseus's eyes, usually so bright and happy, were bloodshot. Tears were stained on his cheeks, and he looked gaunt. Immediately, she choked up as well. Her tears came back to her.

Perseus reached out to hug her. She leaned in as far as she could from across the bed, and with her belly in the way. He still smelled like the ocean, a trait he could never shake. It was comforting, however, and she did not mind. Her head rested on his shoulder as he rubbed her back. Raoxshna allowed herself to fall apart on him. She needed to fall apart at least once, just once, to someone so that she could put herself together.

Without Alexandros.

"My Queen, we will all back you! Perdikkas, Lysimachos, Ptolemaios, Nea—"

"Men who would much rather see themselves rule than my son."

"No, no! We're standing behind you and your chil—Alexandros. I promise you that. Please, please just trust me." His hands reached out to grab her shoulders. Raoxshna, however, could not look upon him. She simply looked down at the bedding and nodded. She was too tired to fight him on this. Taking that as somewhat of acceptance of his words, Perseus pulled her back in for a hug. She let out a sigh but accepted it anyway. They stayed locked in the embrace for a few moments, allowing her to dwell in her thoughts. Though seven years her elder, how was he so naïve? Had he no clue of courtly politics? Perhaps not, because he had spent most of his time in the war room or on the training grounds. Perseus was a fighter, not a politician, at heart. He had no clue how to play the game.

Sweet, innocent Perseus. He would be the first to die in this new world.

* * *

**THE DAUGHTER OF ATHENS**

* * *

"I am off for the day. Boys, listen to your paidagogos! Do you think Herakles got through his Twelve Trials without a little bit of brain?"

Her little twin brothers giggled at their table. They looked up at their father with such love and adoration, with widened brown eyes, trained on his stately figure, that it hurt her. Throughout their first young years of existence, they idolized their father and wished to become everything he stood for. Which is to say, they wished to become the agents of oppression and slaughter, protected by the garbs of "demokratia" and "eleutheria".

Their other idol, of course, had to have been Herakles. Herakles! Herakles, the mythical idol of her younger half-brothers, Herakles who murdered his first wife and children in a fit of madness. What fine men they would grow up to be if they followed in his footsteps.

"And Anaïta Bethzatha… please listen to your mother today. You have so much potential, and even with your flaws I have so many suitors still asking for your hand."

Anaita Bethzatha, or as she liked to be called Annabeth, did not even look up from her loom. Her father had upset her one too many times in her thirteen years to make her warm towards him. When he had first refused to let her learn to read and write, she had stolen his books and snuck out of the house to listen to orators. In order to not look like an outsider, she had cut her hair down to use as a disguise and created a longer wig to wear around her father. For two years she worked relentlessly to sneak past the slaves and her father, always distracted by his duties as a good citizen, in order to learn basic skills. When her father finally caught her, he had been furious. Annabeth received a solid lashing from her father's slaves and her father went out to look for a new wife.

Annabeth's mother had died in childbirth, leaving the young girl with nothing to remember her by. She was given neither a name nor a description of her mother. Apparently her father thought she needed a motherly figure around. Annabeth thought all she needed was some freedom and control over her own life.

Her father's new wife, whom he tried to force her to call "mother", was only six years Annabeth's elder and thoroughly, well, stupid. Helene had bought into the patriarchy, like so many other women had, and was devoted to making her house an image of perfection. She ran the slaves when Annabeth's father was out, made Annabeth's father clothes, and stayed out of the way of the boys' education. Helen had the gods on her side, too, since, at the age of fourteen, she gave birth to twin boys and lived to tell the tale.

Annabeth, however, did not agree with the gods. Helene was a scourge upon the face of Gaia, devoted not just to the perfect household but also the perfect family. This meant that Annabeth was not allowed to read or write except for basic numbers and letters to keep the household intact. Since Helene and her father slept in different rooms, Annabeth's father decided to make Annabeth sleep in Helene's room after catching his daughter up with a candle and scrolls late one night. Helene was not happy with it but went along with it after coming to an arrangement with Annabeth's father.

Helene and Annabeth's father, Pherekrates, were decades apart in age. Almost fifty, Helene was not Pherekrates's first wife, nor his second. He had had, before Annabeth, nearly eight daughters and sons combined. Only one, Malkolmemnon, had survived past childhood. Her older brother was currently stationed overseas, as a commander at Samos. Annabeth had only seen him a few times in her life: once at the age of five, once at the age of ten, and last year during the Exiles' affair. Unlike his father, Malkolmemnon had encouraged her to read, although below his father's nose. He told her that she was special, unlike any child he had seen before. And last year, he had told her that she would lead Athens to greatness once more. She appreciated the compliment, but wondered how she would make such a thing happen.

Even without his endorsement of her dreams, Malkolmemnon's hatred of Helene earned him a permanent spot on her good side. What made the entire situation better was that Helene was obviously infatuated with the young officer. Obnoxiously so. When he came over, Helene was always a mess, flustering and blushing at a mere glance. On more than one occasion, Annabeth's giggles at the scene earned her an ostracism from the table.

Her father was, of course, oblivious to the whole Malkolmemnon situation, but not to the other times his young bride's eyes wandered. Like so many other older husbands, Pherekrates let adultery slide. Once a week, Helene was allowed to go to another man's house without question or complaint. Always perceptive, Annabeth caught on to what was going on by the age of just ten. Those nights ended up being her favorites though, because she was able to read through the night without getting interrupted.

In addition to her once-a-week nightly readings, Annabeth kept a scroll in the outhouse. That way, whenever she needed to relieve herself, she could read from it for a little bit before moving back inside. These readings were not enough for the hungry young woman, but she had to make do with what she had.

Her father sighed when he did not get the response he was looking for. Not that he was unused to his daughter's coldness towards him. He turned out the door anyways, departing with an armed slave next to him. As the citizen in charge of Athens's finances, he was allotted the protection. Unlike the rest of the omomokotes, her father served for four-year terms as the theorikon and was on his second term now. He had been instrumental in Hyperides's removal of Demosthenes last year, accusing him of stealing Harpalos's money.

And as much as her father doubted her intelligence — or rather denied its existence — she knew better than the rest of Athens on that subject. Her father and Hyperides, along with the rest of their co-conspirators, had taken the three-hundred-and-fifty silver talents themselves, as a downpayment to a mercenary officer named Leosthenes. She had listened to their conversations and had re-read their scrolls. She knew that the removal of Demosthenes was only for Hyperides' own gain. Demosthenes, once Hyperides's mentor, was removed right at the time of the Exiles' affair. And as such, if war broke out between Makedonia and Athens… it would be Hyperides, not Demosthenes, leading Athens to glory.

The slaves took away the boys' plates as they sat down with their paidagogos. From him, they learned how to read and write, how to speak, and how to win military battles. Their paidagogos was a slave from Samos named Epandros, whose family had been enslaved to her family for three generations now. He was a friendly enough man, with whom she had had a few sparing yet intimate conversations. She had gotten enough out of him to know that he did not dislike his servitude, especially to her family. Annabeth supposed that after a long enough amount of time, anything seemed normal, and normal seemed good.

Helene moved out of the kitchen. As she did every morning, she turned around when Annabeth did not move with her. "Are you coming or not child?" She asked in that stern, "motherly" voice of hers. By Hera did Annabeth hate that forced voice.

"Of course, of course."

In getting up, Annabeth "accidentally" let her dress get caught in the loom's mechanism. The light yet large frame could not let go of the dress on its own, so when Annabeth took a few steps forward the whole thing crashed to the floor. Annabeth rolled out of the way with inhuman agility, her dress miraculously slipping free before she too was brought to the floor. The loud crash startled the boys and their paidagogos. They sprung from their seats and raised their eyes, once more widened, at Annabeth and the loom. Her smile widened as the teacher tried to move the boys out of the room.

On all fours, her knees probably scraped, her arms flexed to let her seat herself on her knees. Annabeth used her hands to casually brush the dust off of her peplos. Her hands, roughened by the loom, swept the mostly imaginary dust particles off the white cloth. She turned to survey the damage on the loom. The beams looked intact, fortunately; however, the string that hung down from the top of the loom was too tangled to be repairable. Inside, Annabeth smiled at the commotion she had caused. No doubt Helene was furious with her but there was nothing that Helene could do that would scare Annabeth at this point.

She saw out of the corner of her eye her two brothers who were still stuck, staring at the scene she had just made. She ignored them for their mother, whose seething anger was palpable in its heat. Never had Annabeth seen her stepmother like this before. Her pale face was turning bright red, her hands clenched in fists at her side. Annabeth heard the paidagogos encourage her half-brothers to get back to studying.

"Clean this up."

Her stepmother's voice was scarily calm, quiet, and was coming out through harsh breaths. It was the voice one used when they were unnaturally mad and at wit's end. The slaves which she had directed the order at moved quickly to obey. Two strong men lifted the womb back into place, then began working to cut away the strings.

Annabeth raised her eyes to meet Helene's soft brown ones. The grey-eyed girl had no difficulty meeting the woman's harsh gaze with her own determined stare. Even as a young girl, Annabeth had never been afraid of Helene, not once in her life. The meanest Helene had ever gotten was a slap, and even that was not painful. Simply put, Helene was a weakling compared with Annabeth. At thirteen, Annabeth was twice as strong as Helene.

Even so, the hand that connected with her cheek still stung, and would surely leave a red mark. It forced her to break her gaze with the older woman. However, Annabeth quickly recovered to stare back defiantly. She would not be cowed by this idiot woman who believed that a woman's place was inside the house. Their world was confined by four walls and a roof. Even her escapades at a young age had died away in her memory. Annabeth barely remembered what the Pnyx looked like. She wanted out, unlike Helene.

Helene growled, her hand seizing some of Annabeth's hair. She dragged her out of the kitchen, Annabeth's feet tripping up as she struggled to keep up with Helene's furious pace. Annabeth was startled by the sudden bout of rage, which was, for all intents and purposes, completely abnormal. This bout of strength too was unnatural.

Annabeth had never seen this level of anger in Helene before. It had to be what was fueling the strength, taking the young girl by surprise. As Helene dragged her through the courtyard, Annabeth's mind wandered, wondering what might have brought this on. Surely it had to do with something other than her, for Helene usually just tried to ignore her husband's daughter.

The pull on her hair hurt badly. Her hair had grown out since she had cut it all those years ago. It was blonde, an unusual coloring for a Greek, long, naturally soft, and curly. Annabeth hated it. It was difficult to maintain, knotted too easily, and took too long to wash. Now she hated it even more. Helene's fingers got caught in the knots and as she dragged Annabeth across the courtyard, those fingers yanked her knots forward. She felt like her hair was getting ripped out of her head, and it probably was, so she tried to slap Helene's hands away.

Even with her superior strength, it was to no use. Helene dragged her through the courtyard and into their shared room. Slamming the door open with her foot, Helene then marched inside. The floor was stone, which got hot in these brutal Attik summers. Helene let go of Annabeth's hair, throwing the younger woman to the ground. On her knees, Annabeth tried to desperately compose herself. She felt a lone tear slip down her tan cheek.

"I have had enough of you. Absolutely enough! Do you think that you are special? That you are different than the rest of us women? That you can prance about without a husband, throwing tantrums against your suitors? Do you know how many good men you have forced to reject your hand? How many good proposals you have shot down? Do you think nothing of your own family?"

Good men? Did Helene hear herself? Annabeth glared up at her stepmother, unimpressed by her outburst. The older woman was a funny sight, with her normally soft and doting eyes narrowed into tight slits that tried and failed to give off the impression of being scary. Her pale cheeks, which had lost their color by being cooped up inside all day, were bright red. Instead of looking like a vengeful goddess, Helene looked closer to what Annabeth remembered actor masks looked like. And on top of all that, she had called Annabeth's former suitors "good men"?

There was nothing good about either suitor. The first, an arrogant young man, twenty-one years of age, fresh out of his mandatory two-years of military service, was far more interested in her stepmother than her; noticing this, Annabeth took it upon herself to have less than appetizing eating habits, and "accidentally" spilled some wine down Helene's dress. The commotion that had ensued earned Annabeth a month of extra chores and twelve lashings.

The second suitor was a man thrice her age, and very interested in her. Annabeth disliked the man's obvious groping — though far and beyond him she disliked that her father and stepmother encouraged the man to 'feel as he pleased'. Instead of climaxing for him, as she knew he wanted, Annabeth had gathered all of her fluids and urinated on his hand. Far from her best moment, but at least it was excusable. Not that her father and stepmother had taken the excuse.

So no, neither man was "good". She had rejected all of her suitors so far. Normally girls went without a say in the matter, but Annabeth was smarter than most girls. Still, she had no doubt her time would come. She just wished to delay it as much as possible. There was an idea in her head to run away, but that was just a half-formed plan. The young girl gathered she needed as much as a month to finish her preparations.

"I talked with your father yesterday." Annabeth turned to face Helene. "He agreed with me. You need to be broken in before you can be married. The Hippokratics think it's good for a woman, and I agree."

Broken in.

Broken in.

No, no, no. Annabeth's face morphed from smug defiance to fear instantly. She knew what that meant, and her opened mouth reflected that. Her father had talked about it before with his friends at symposiums, friends who had given up their daughters to hetairai to train them in the art of lovemaking. One especially cruel friend had told her father that he had let his daughter work as a pornai for a year at the age of eleven before giving her off to an oddly-tasted man. That story had kept Annabeth up for many nights in a row, fearful that her father would do the same to her. She did not doubt that he might if a man asked for her to be "prepped" that way. She had used her father's altar to pray to Aphrodite and Hera that such a fate would never befall her. Those prayers were seemingly going unanswered.

"Oh, I see your fear. Finally, in all of your miserable life, you'll have to deal with being a woman, like the rest of us!"

Her stepmother smirked down at Annabeth, who was still recoiling on the floor. For the first time in her life, Annabeth was entirely at a loss as to what to do. Annabeth had prided herself on being in control, for always having a plan. When her father caught her sneaking out of the house, Annabeth began to read at night. When her father caught her reading at night, she read in the outhouse. When her father gave her suitors, she spat in their faces. Now, she was unsure of what to do. Annabeth had no doubt that her uncertainty was playing itself out across her face right now as fear, given the triumphant smirk on her stepmother's face.

"Dwell on that the next time your father brings you a worthy suitor."

Helene walked out of the room, slamming the door on her way out. Still stunned, Annabeth could only stared at the wooden door. On the other side of it, she heard her stepmother conversing with the slaves, telling one of them not to let her out for the rest of the day.

Did Helene really think her father would do that? That one of the most respectable men in Athens would let his daughter get used like a commoner before being married off? She knew some men, when they were low on money or had caught their daughters in affairs, would send them off, but her father was not in any of those positions. Doing so would risk so much, would risk his status and reputation, would risk her worth to other suitors. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

Would he?

Annabeth reached behind her, grabbing onto the rough bed frame. Tears welled up in her eyes, only held back by her determination not to cry over this. She would not let tears fall, she would not give Helene that satisfaction, even if her stepmother would never see the tears. The young girl twisted her body, her stomach contorting like a twisted wash rag. Her forehead leaned against the bed frame and she let out a long, shaky breath. She trusted that her father wouldn't do that to her.

He wouldn't.

**Π**

Annabeth spent the rest of the day in her room. Her stepmother was not cruel, and gave her ariston of bread and cheese, along with sausage and olives. She even got a kylix with wine, though considerably cut. When she was not eating, Annabeth paced back and forth across her room, unable to take out the scrolls underneath her bed. Besides the fear of being caught, the main reason she refused to read was that she could not possibly focus on anything other than her current predicament. She had played out many scenarios in her head, trying to get back on top of things.

The first scenario she found was what Helene had described. Though Annabeth tried to believe it could never happen, there was no reason to believe that it could not possibly happen to her. Her life then would be turned upside down, being raped repeatedly before being sold off to a far older man to bear his children and be his bitch for the rest of her life.

The second scenario arose because she could not let the first happen. If her father decided that it would be in his best interests to give her to a hetaira, then Annabeth would be forced to run away. Knowing that the announcement could come at any possible minute, she knew she should begin to prepare now. To an extent, she knew how to sneak out of the city — she had found a map in her father's room — and figured she was resourceful enough to slip past the guards at the gates.

The third scenario was that her father gave her to a suitor, and whether or not he had to tie her up and ship her off was not his problem. If the man was decent enough, then she could easily adjust. She would not like it, but men were easy to manipulate. Helene had been useful for that much, teaching her, unbeknownst to the teacher, that even smart men like her father were imbeciles when it came to women. If the man was not decent — and the possibility that he was not was higher than the possibility that he was — then she would be forced to repeat the second scenario. Her father would not be willing to let her drive away her third suitor.

Annabeth would be forced to wait for now, until something did happen. Her best option, she assumed, would be to lay low at the house, quietly gathering supplies to sneak out when or if the time arose for such a thing. She would be nicer, though not enough to arouse suspicion, to both Helene and her father. Lower their guard a bit. Perhaps she would swallow her pride and let Helene think she had won a great victory. If it meant freedom, Annabeth believed herself able to choke down her greatest possession.

A stubborn young girl, Annabeth's mind was set quickly. Plan for the worst, hope for the best. Though the best might mean the worst would have to happen first. No matter, she had a plan. And a plan was all that she needed to survive. Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan.

"Anaïta Bethzatha, you can come out now. Come greet your father before deipnon."

Annabeth put a smile on her face. She remembered watching a few plays as a young girl. Their masks would be her masks, her armor.

* * *

**THE BODYGUARD**

* * *

Perseus found himself getting into armor once more. The hetairoi and pezhetairoi officers had stormed Alexandros's room early in the morning, demanding entry. They knew what those in the room already knew — Alexandros was gone. For all of the divisions the army had had with him, for all of the rebellions, they still loved him. How could they not? Everyone loved him.

Before the room had been stormed, clear battle lines were formed inside. One group, headed by Perdikkas and including Leonnatos and Peithon, was ready to let the signet ring be the end of it. Perdikkas was in command, that was what Alexandros had meant. Perdikkas alone had the power to choose the next king, they argued, and everyone else would have to suck it up. The other group, headed by Ptolemaios, argued for a rule of many. Give the satraps their satrapies, he argued, and let them rule the empire as a council until Alexandros's child came of age.

Perseus was inclined to side with Ptolemaios. The older man had been one of his greatest mentors, along with Alexandros. Ptolemaios was, in Perseus's opinion, the smartest man in any room that did not include the King. Perhaps, sometimes, even smarter. Smart enough to know that Perseus was on his side, even if he never said it. It gave Perseus room to mediate between the two sides.

He was no fool, though even he admitted he was sometimes oblivious. He knew a civil war was coming. By Zeus! could Alexandros not have died only a bit later? Once his child was established as ruler, once Krateros had pushed out Antipatros? He did not for a moment doubt Nearkhos's suspicion that Iollas and Kassandros worked on their father's behalf to poison the King.

But he wished that these generals would just get along. Were they not after the same thing? Did they not want the continued existence of the Argead dynasty with Olympias and Rhoxana presiding over it? He did not see any ambition in anyone else's eyes to name themselves basileus over Alexandros's child, or even over Arridaios. As far as he could tell, they were jockeying to become regent.

And for some, not even that. Ptolemaios, he knew, was focused on securing wealthy Egypt. Lysimachos wanted Thrace. Others had their own regions they wished to secure. And outside of the somatophylakes, Perseus did not know. He had not known Antipatros for many years now, but he knew Antipatros's sons Iollas and Kassandros and disliked both. Antipatros ruled over Makedonia and the rest of Europe. The old man had been antagonistic towards Alexandros since the invasion of Persia. He knew his duty, however, and Perseus expected Antipatros to back Alexandros's trueborn son.

The other major wildcard was Krateros. While he respected the man as a warrior and as a staunch loyalist of the King, he wondered how far those loyalties would hold with Rhoxana's child on the throne. He did not know what Krateros wanted, however. The reports earlier in the summer said that the old general had stopped in Kilikia. The reports worried Ptolemaios. They now worried Perseus too. With 10,000 argyraspides, the elite troops of Alexandros's conquering armies, under his command, Krateros had the ability to take on a force far stronger than his own, perhaps even those whose numbers doubled his own.

Ptolemaios had pulled him aside as the officers walked past their fallen King. 'We need to talk tomorrow. About what, you already know.' Perseus had been in discussions with the senior officer for the whole week leading up to the King's death.

The King's death. It didn't feel real, that Alexandros was really gone. They had all suspected it for a few days now, but when it really happened, when he really left them for Elysion pedion, Perseus could not believe it. His whole world was directionless, adrift at sea without any hope of rescue. He could not begin to imagine how Rhoxana felt. As much as he tried to reassure her that it would all work out for her and her child, even he could not stomach that lie. Her husband's body was not yet cold and his most trusted friends and generals had split themselves down the middle.

Not that he was free from blame. When there was a suspicion that Alexandros could not overcome this illness, he and Ptolemaios had immediately put their heads together to keep Alexandros's legacy alive. They made enemies out of friends, rivals out of comrades. There was not a hint of doubt amongst any of them that war was a matter of when not if.

All of this was going through his head as he prepared to fight the first battles of this war. Behind him, his page, Ethandros, strapped him into his cuirass. The muscle plate was gilded with silver, engraved with intricate designs throughout the chest and back. A similarly gilded pteruges was strapped around his waist already. The page, a young boy from Boeotia, was fifteen years of age, and very obedient. Also quiet. Perseus disliked that he couldn't much get the young boy to speak, but he respected the boy's space. Ethandros had his skills outside of the tongue. What he had learned about the boy's combat prowess he liked.

Whereas the majority of the Makedonian army consisted of the heavy hypaspists, hoplites, and phalangites, Perseus much preferred the more maneuverable peltasts. When fighting the Scythians, Perseus realized their worth too. Mobility was Perseus's greatest weapon. Therefore he quite liked the sly style Ethandros brought to the table, constantly trying to dodge and flank his opponents. Luckily, the boy had never seen true battle, but in the fighting pits he was brilliant. Perseus had nearly lost to him once.

The young page handed Perseus his doru. The regular weapon for the somatophylakes when they were in actual bodyguard mode, it was also one of Perseus's more favored weapons. His other weapons hung in a wardrobe across from his bed. Two kopis daggers, a set of throwing knives, and a xiphos short sword sat next to his pelte shield. Today he would take in his left arm a hoplon shield, the massive wooden frame concealing almost his whole body.

But before he took the shield, Perseus sat his Korinthian helmet, gilded with silver and carved with the most detailed of designs, upon his head. While the helmet restricted his visibility in open combat, it was the required ceremonial helmet. Once it was firmly rested, Perseus took his hoplon from Ethandros. He smiled at the young page, who only bowed his head, a slight blush along his cheeks.

"How do I look?"

"Imposing."

Perseus looked back at the boy. His head remained bowed, his eyes glued to the floor. Perseus found this behavior odd. A few of the Persians had exhibited such behavior to Alexandros during his stay in Babylon, but Perseus was no Alexandros. And Ethandros had never exhibited such behavior to Perseus or even to Alexandros. Come to think of it Perseus was unsure if his page had ever met the King.

"You don't have to act like that around me. Come now," Perseus placed his arm around the boy's shoulders. He still stared at the ground. Perseus frowned. "You don't have to act like that. It's a Persian way of greeting a King. And I am no King. You can meet my eyes."

Finally, Ethandros looked up at him. His brown eyes exhibited something close to fear, a fear Perseus had not seen even during the fiercest fighting at the pits.

"Ethandros, what's wrong? You look as though Ares himself stands before you? Is it the helmet?" He tried to jest.

Ethandros shook his head but said nothing. Perseus was truly worried. His tight-lipped page was normally this taciturn, but never in the face of his questions or with such fear attached.

"Ethandros, you have to tell me what's going on, otherwise I cannot help you!" Perseus added emphasis at the end of the sentence, trying to drag the fear out of his page.

"The men around the city… the soldiers." Ethandros shifted his feet. "They were saying things about you."

"What things?" Perseus asked as his body froze up. Mutterings among the troops were never good, especially not now. The last time such things happened, Alexandros himself had faced revolt. If there were stirrings in the army, it needed to be faced down. Quickly too, before the coming meeting began.

"They were talking about you… and about the new king."

"What were they saying? I need details Ethandros."

"I-it was about the succession. I overheard some of the men saying that you should lead—"

Ethandros seemed to recognize the expression on Perseus's face as something dangerous. He shut his mouth quickly and his head shot back down to look at the floor. Though Ethandros was tall for his age, Perseus was taller. The older man sat down on his bed, keeping one hand on Ethandros's shoulder. Their heads were at the same level. Both his doru and hoplon shield were forgotten on the ground, Perseus's Korinthian helm pushed up above his head.

"Ethandros, I'm not going to get upset at you for repeating what others have said. Just… relay what they said to me, okay?"

"I hadn't, well, I didn't really know what happened in Malli."

Now it was Perseus's turn to freeze up. Of course, some of them were talking about that. In a time like this, that was what they turned to? None of them were there to witness what had happened inside that city. Even those who were there did not fully understand what happened. Hades himself! Perseus didn't know what had happened.

His grip was too tight on the boy, Perseus realized once he saw Ethandros wince. Hastily he removed his hand, setting it down on his lap.

"I apologize, that wasn't directed at you. I…"

Ethandros rubbed his shoulder, eyes trained on the ground as they had been all day. If he had heard some version — no doubt twisted beyond comparison to the original — of what had happened that day, no wonder the boy was afraid. Perseus had constant nightmares of that day. He was only happy that the King was not conscious, and had thus missed out on the horrific episode. When he had heard what had happened, Alexandros was more than understanding about the whole affair. It may have been because he did not witness it himself, but Alexandros comforted the young Perseus as he struggled to retain his sanity.

He missed his King. Not just because he would know what to do in this situation, but also due to the simple fact that if he were still alive none of them would be in this situation.

"Was Malli all they talked about? If so, well, I am in no state to answer any questions on that subject now."

Ethandros was smart enough to understand. "No, no sir. They also talked about… I mean, it relates to Malli, but we-we don't have to talk about it - Malli - to talk about what they said."

It scared him, how much this boy, perhaps ten to twelve years his younger, was afraid of him. Perseus had heard the men talking about Malli before and had seen the different level of respect they accord to him after it, but he never assumed it could lead to fear.

"They said that you were a demigod, like Alexandros. I heard one of the men say that they thought you were… you were the obvious choice to lead. Everyone else seemed to agree with him."

"Lead? Lead what?"

"Lead the empire."

His page's words repeated themselves over and over again in his mind until he could hear nothing else. The words echoed, sped around his head, pounded against the walls of his mind. Alexandros's empire… Alexandros's army…

Perseus shook his head. No, it was a few soldiers discussing a probability, not a certainty. It was not his empire to rule. Although Perdikkas claimed himself regent, it should be Ptolemaios in his place. Or, at the very least, Ptolemaios deserved a say. Perseus wondered if the King knew the shithole he was leaving them all behind in. Knowing him, probably.

"Well, as much as I appreciate their… trust… I cannot take them up on their offer." Perseus tried to make the last part lighter, as if he was turning down an invitation to a symposium. His page, however, showed no reaction to his — terribly lame — attempt at humor. His face was strained, his eyebrows scrunched together, his mind deep in thought. Perseus gazed upon the boy a bit. His skin, naturally pale, had seen some browning in the Babylonian heat. His bowed head only showed Perseus the curly brown hair that rested on its top.

With a sigh, Perseus pushed himself up from the bed. His hand wrapped around the doru again, his left hand picking up the hoplon. The weight of the spear, he was ashamed to say, felt reassuring in his hands. Though he had held the front line with a sarissa and pelte, the doru or a xiphos or kopis always felt better in his hands. He was an individual fighter more so than a foot soldier.

"Come along now," Perseus began to make his way through his room to his doorway. His head looked back over his shoulder, finding Ethandros stuck in his previous position. "We can't be late for this. It wouldn't look good at all."

That struck the page from his stupor. The young boy scurried to drop into place behind Perseus, following the older soldier as he continued his march to the throne room.

"Why not?"

"Hmm?"

"I mean… why not lead?"

A good question for a boy to ask, but the way Ethandros asked the question made him groan. Just like everyone else in this gods-forsaken city, the boy had tasted power, absolute power. No doubt the boy had dreamed of it himself too.

"Because power, it corrupts. And the power held here… it is too great to leave no mark on man. I wish to remain unblemished."

"So you'll leave Babylon?"

He would, but those plans were not yet finalized. "We will, in time. Don't let the power get to your head, either."

"What about the, um… what about the power you possess?"

Perseus stopped cold. He spun on his heel, his eyes harsh and wild. The boy had overstepped his bounds. Had he not already told him not to prod into that fucking mess? He told Ethandros as much; the reprimand was too harsh, for his page immediately slunk back in fear. Perseus sighed, rubbing his temple with the hand that also held his hoplon.

"I am sorry, Ethandros. But that is not something I will discuss. Ever. With you, or with anyone. Not even Ptolemaios or the King has heard much. Don't take it personally. Okay?"

The boy quickly nodded. Thus they resumed their journey back down the halls of power, neither of them speaking a word.

* * *

**THE SIGNET-BEARER**

* * *

A ghost presided over their meeting.

Whether it was Alexandros's or Nebuchadnezzar's, Perdikkas could not tell. The air was unusually chilly for a Babylonian summer day and the room gave off an odd combination of extreme anger and extreme melancholy.

On the Throne sat the King's armor, robes, and diadem. Leaned against the decorated chair, lofted above all others, were his sarissa, pelte, and xiphos. A warrior in life and in death. The signet-ring, which had been placed in Perdikkas's hand in the King's last moments, still sat in Perdikkas's palm. The khilliakchos was unable to sleep the night before and had taken to staring at the ring for hours. He had memorized every detail.

Perdikkas now sat in his chair to the right of the vacant Throne. To his right sat Leonnatos, to whose right sat Peithon, to whose right sat Aristonous. Opposite them, to the left of Alexandros's now-empty throne, sat Ptolemaios, Perseus, and Lysimachos. Behind Ptolemaios's faction stood Nearkhos the Navarkhos. Behind Perdikkas's faction stood Eumenes the Greek. Battle lines had been drawn.

In front of the assembled senior officers stood an ekklesia of more junior officers. Meleagros, a favorite of the pezhetairoi but not of the fallen King, stood in the front, next to other, less notable hipparkhoi and taxiarkhoi. His trusted commanders, Seleukos and Antigenes, stood with Meleagros. Hopefully, the infantry would defend him, when the time soon came, against the pushback of his newfound-rivals. His trust in Ptolemaios had withered down to dirt in the days following Alexandros's injury at Malli and had never recovered. Perdikkas had no faith — though nor did any of the other somatophylakes — in Antipatros or Krateros either. Then there was the threat of Antigonos in Asia Minor still, and the always-constant but suddenly more so danger of rebellion throughout the empire. But Perdikkas had faith in himself to succeed. He had studied under Alexandros for a long time and felt as though he knew what had made the Great King great.

The Great King who now rested in between his side and Ptolemaios's side. His body, still in pristine form and without the blemish yet of death, laid on a bed of flowers picked by the grieving Rhoxana. Though, weren't they all still grieving? Laying one of his dearest friends to rest, in full view of everyone, was hard. But Perdikkas knew the impact it would make.

In fact, Perdikkas saw the impact it had on young Perseus immediately upon his arrival. His eyes had widened, his lower jaw had slumped down. There were rumors, less frequent since the Indian campaign, that the reason Alexandros had been so inclined to promote Perseus was that the King was in love with the then-teenaged soldier. It would have explained why Hephaistion had such a one-sided rivalry with the young officer. Currently, Perdikkas was unsure what to make of the boy. He was on Ptolemaios's side, without a doubt, but he did not seem much of a partisan. The coming days would make his position more clear, Perdikkas believed.

"The matter before us is of the utmost importance, as you all undoubtedly know." Perdikkas rose from his chair, walking over to Alexandros's body. His hand ran along the sides of the pedestal the King rested on. "We must choose a successor, for the King left us without his own choice."

His eyes were glued to Alexandros's as he spoke; the King's eyes, both the brown and blue ones, were forever more closed. No, Perdikkas thought to himself, he could not think of that right now. A lone tear trailed down his cheek, forcing Perdikkas to wrench his eyes away from the horrific sight. He restarted his speech with a loud, protruding voice, with his eyes darting around the room, catching the eyes for a split second of one officer then another the next. He kept his eyes steered forward, not for a moment glancing behind him towards the rest of the somatophylakes. They were not his priority; those that had been convinced were of no threat and those that had not been were inconvincible.

"But he did leave us with an heir, although not yet born. To ensure that our empire, our empire that we all bled for, lost friends for, lost families for, survives, we must wait for his Queen to give birth. In less than a month we are told she will give birth, and we shall wait until then and do our best to ensure the child's survival. If the child survives and we determine the child's gender to be male, then we have ourselves a king. We must pray to the gods for a healthy boy."

"In the meantime, we have to make sure this empire holds until we can crown a new King." Perdikkas looked behind him to identify the voice. His supporter, Aristonous, was making his move. Aristonous stood up, his moves choreographed to perfection. Perdikkas acted surprised when Aristonous began to speak. He shuffled back to his own seat to let his fellow somatophylax speak on his behalf. "We have to follow someone! We cannot just chase around like a headless chicken. Our king agreed. He knew he needed an heir, and didn't have one. So he gave his signet ring to the man he knew could lead. Perdikkas!"

The man in question gazed upon the assembled faces of his comrades. There were some murmurings and nodding heads. A good sign. In the corner of his eye, Perdikkas caught Ptolemaios with a blank expression on his face, and Perseus rolling his eyes. Hypocrites, for Perdikkas did not for a moment doubt the duo had their own theatrics planned.

"We know Perdikkas too! A good man, a good general. Since the beginning, he fought with Alexandros! Since the beginning, he served with distinction! He is a man I know I can follow and trust. Tell me he is not a man you cannot follow and trust as well. Alexandros trusted him!"

"It is true," Perdikkas began. He stood from the right-hand seat. He began subdued, emphasizing humility. "Alexandros gave me his signet-ring—" Perdikkas brandished the ring up high, in between his pointer and thumb, so that all assembled, even those behind him, might see it "—and I take it with the greatest humility. If you all so wish, I will use it, to the height of my abilities, and with the blood you and your men have shed deeply seated in my mind. It is a trial that I will not shy away from, a trial given by the gods themselves. It is not by Tyche's favor that I have come across this ring, but by Ares's and Athena's, by Zeus's and Hera's! We stand at a crossroads, my companions, and may the gods bless us with the right path."

With his speech finished, Perdikkas took a moment to recover his breath. Speaking was never something he had had to do much of, and if he had it was not for political reasons. For so long it was Hephaistion who had spoken if Alexandros wanted someone else to speak, and after him, the King liked it when Perseus spoke. Perdikkas, though he was made the khilliarkhos after Hephaistion, never spoke much unless it was before battles.

Apparently, that was an issue, for very few of the taxiarkhoi or pentakarkhoi were nodding along with the hipparkhoi. Most of the infantry officers instead were shaking their heads or muttering amongst themselves about who-knew-what.

"We are not short on heirs, Perdikkas." The signet-bearer turned around to face the voice. Nearkhos, the navarkhos and a Greek, had addressed him. Though Perdikkas respected the man's devotion to Alexandros and his naval prowess, he was still a Greek-speaking out of turn. "Just legitimate ones. The King has a son! Herakles, born of a half-Greek mother and a Makedonian father! A far more acceptable ruler than one half-Persian, would you all not agree? Legitimize him, make him king. The boy will be of age in far less time than Rhoxana's child will be ready to rule without a regent."

Perdikkas glared at the Greek for his not-so-subtle attack upon his authority. A retort was notched on his lips, ready to let loose, but Perdikkas was not the only one Nearchos had offended. Perseus turned in his chair to gaze upon the naval officer, a hard look in his eyes.

"Which would make you brother-in-law to the King, yes? Quite convenient for you, wouldn't you agree old friend?"

Nearchos put up his hands, slinking back from the counter-attack. Far less effective on land than at sea, Perdikkas chuckled internally.

"It was worth a shot," the Greek tried to joke. A few grunts of laughter were heard around the room at Nearchos's attempt to get the best out of a bad situation. Perseus, satisfied, turned his back on the sailor. His defense of Rhoxana's child was not surprising, but nonetheless Perdikkas knew the two had some room to work together on.

"Herakles is a bastard, and by my accounts, Rhoxana's baby will be too!"

Perdikkas's head snapped to his left to find that Meleagros had separated himself from the pack of officers. The man had somehow managed to disparage Alexandros and lived to tell the tale, and with Alexandros dead, Perdikkas assumed, Meleagros wanted his limelight. Not everyone was too heartbroken over the King's death.

"Do you all really think our armies will march behind the banner of a half-Persian boy? Do you think that they will march into Arabia on his behalf when we still haven't been able to march back home?"

Perseus stood from his chair, walking towards Meleagros. Since Perdikkas was in his path, the signet-bearer moved to the side. It was best to let these two duke it out before he swooped in. The enemy of your enemy was still your enemy.

"Yes, tell me how well it went the last time the King tried to send us home? Did we listen? No, we whined and bitched until he was forced to talk to only Persians. Come now Meleagros, don't be a fucking fool." Perseus's voice was calm, cool, and dangerous. Perdikkas had seen him act the same way twice before, once towards Kleitos the Black and once towards a soldier who had spoken out against Alexandros. Less than an hour after both encounters the men were dead. "Who do you wish to lead instead of Alexandros's trueborn son?"

As Perseus got into Meleagros's face, and even though Perseus stood a head above the infantry general, the older man stood his ground. Perdikkas applauded the man's bravery, for not many were able to stand toe-to-toe with the Demon of India. The two men had been rivals for half a decade, as Perseus not only continued to be promoted but had become one of the King's closest friends. This was just one of many headbutts the two had had. Meleagros opened his mouth to reply, though the room knew whom he would choose.

"Arridaios."

"Arridaios?" Ptolemaios had spoken, which Perdikkas knew without having to turn around. His eye twitched when he heard the imperious man speak. His voice, so officious and condescending at times, irritated Perdikkas to no end. "Arridaios is an invalid at best. He has the mindset of a child—"

"—and has been the rightful king of Makedonia since his birth!" Meleagros boldly interrupted Ptolemaios, stepping away from the other man's deputy to face Ptolemaios. It wasn't just the interruption that was bold, but the words too. Arridaios was Alexandros's younger half-brother, an imbecile, but was born to full Makedonian parents. In many people's eyes, that was apparently enough to raise Arrhidaios above Alexandros.

These words would have meant instant death if the King was alive, as they had meant for Kleitos the Black, but seeing as the King was dead, no one had the power to enforce their ban. Still, everyone was shocked.

The assembled officers stared, agape, at the brash infantryman. The somatophylakes, though they had expected the army to support Arridaios originally, had not suspected such unorthodox views from the army. Perdikkas could hear them shifting uncomfortably in their seats. He too was uncomfortable. He knew he had no power to do so at the moment, but by Dike he wished he could bring swift and inescapable justice upon this shame of a man.

Meleagros himself realized that he had overstepped his bounds, for he quickly backtracked. The horror at his own words was written across his face, so Perdikkas felt as if he had not truly meant them. Instead, he probably said them in a fit of rage. This line of thinking allowed Perdikkas's head to cool, and to allow for rational thought to take over once more.

"I mean, he could have been. And should he not now? By law he is the heir!"

The infantryman's voice was quieter than before and far timider. He had overplayed his hand but did not want to turn victory into defeat. Luckily for him, his fellow pezhetairoi murmured their consent, and all was good for Meleagros. This, in turn, meant that nothing was good for the somatophylakes. They had the hipparchoi on their side, but not much else.

"A useless heir who will require a regent for life," Ptolemaios replied. His earlier condescension was gone, replaced by a cool tone. Unlike his ally, Ptolemaios held no emotion in his voice, only his own unmistakable brand of rationality. "And even Rhoxana's child — I pray to the gods it is a healthy boy — will require a regent too, for at least a dozen-odd years! And what power will this regent have?"

Perseus had stepped out of the way but had not taken his seat as Perdikkas had done during the fight between Perseus and Meleagros. Instead, he stood behind Ptolemaios, his hand on his doru. Ptolemaios had the stage.

"And by what authority should this regent rule? A ring of metal? That was not all that was passed between us and the king in his final moments." Ptolemaios paused for effect, trying to reassert not just his authority but to rebuild the authority of the rest of the senior officers. Last night, as the junior officers had barged into Alexandros's bedside, it became apparent that they had little trust in the somatophylakes any more. "He told us that his authority would go 'to the best'."

Ptolemaios gazed around the room. "The best of us, but we were all equals. Is the message not clear? It goes not to one of us above the other," he said gesturing behind him, "nor to us above you. It goes to us all, to vote on. Are we not peers in our campaigns, in the love we had for our king? We have different opinions, and our king respected that. Let us now respect him. Form a council to rule, made up of the somatophylakes, hetairoi, and the pezhetairoi. A council to create the best ideas, to lead Alexandros's empire not just in the ideal of one vaguely appointed man, but in the ideals of many."

"You sound like Demosthenes. Should we give the common people a vote too? Maybe the women? What about the dogs? Oh! And don't forget about the horses!"

The assembled officers laughed at Leonnatos's well-timed joke. Perdikkas was sure he would have to thank the man later. Ptolemaios was an idealist not unlike the King. That idealism was what had lost him the momentum in India, Perdikkas believed. A belief that had never been voiced but was nonetheless right.

"Did I say anything about the women and the dogs, Leonnatos?" Ptolemaios looked back at this fellow somatophylax for a moment before turning back to the assembled officers. Perseus stepped forward, however, and stole the stage for a moment. Ptolemaios might be content to continue on and ignore pompous Leonnatos, but Perseus didn't take slights against friends lightly.

"Perhaps you yourself wish to be the regent Leonnatos? Or, dare I say it, the king? If I flip my hair back like the king can I too rule? Though I'm not half as pretty as you, unfortunately. You all know what?" Perseus threw out his arms, a sly smile adorning his, admittedly gorgeous face. "Let's make you satrap of Athens — Alkibiades the Second!"

At this point, the glorious speeches Perdikkas had dreamed would come about had yet to materialize. The whole assembly had turned into a cat-fight yet with epic consequences. He had thought it would be easier than this, with the ring in his hand, to control just the officers. A headache was forming already.

Leonnatos looked to retort, since no one wanted their opponent to get in the last word. But Ptolemaios was already getting back to his vainglorious speech on power-sharing. It wasn't even his power to give, it was Perdikkas's! The thrice-damned fool.

"I offered to give you power, Leonnatos. To give all of us power. Not as if we were Athens, but as Makedonians. We who conquered the world! Who wiped out Persia! Who defeated elephants and camels and snakes! Tell me this — did we do that blindly following Alexandros, or did he give us all a say? Did he not turn around from his conquests because we said no? Did he not consult us when he drew up his invasion plans? He did not conquer the world alone, he did so with our help. And with our help his child will rule an empire even greater than his father!"

The hipparkhoi and some taxiarkhoi, those who might have gotten promotions to hipparkhoi in the advent of an invasion of Arabia, pounded their spears. The rest would not be so easily convinced to give up one position for another so quickly.

"And you will all help, of course." Perdikkas stood from his chair, moving to center stage. Unlike Ptolemaios, he needed no pretty-boy deputy. The two men, however, had the dignity to sit down once he stood. "Ptolemaios brings up a good point. This is such a difficult empire to rule." He took a pause for effect. "I cannot do it alone.

"I will appoint Krateros and Antipatros rule of Europe. And as for Asia, Leonnatos and I will, with your input, run this vast continent. I will still serve as overall regent, as Alexandros intended—" he brandished the ring once more "—and if Rhoxana gives us a healthy male heir, once he comes of age the boy will be King!"

Perdikkas glanced over at Ptolemaios. His longtime rival was furious, to Perdikkas's great delight. Oh, he was absolutely giddy at Ptolemaios's bright red face, looking like a Persian gown. Ptolemaios had thought he had played his trump card, but the man had forgotten whose authority he was dishing out.

Quickly, before anyone had time to object, Perdikkas moved to deal out orders. His men would deal with the cavalry, who would be by-and-large on his side, while he would order Meleagros to deal with the infantry. Though Meleagros would be upset at his failure to secure Arridaios, Perdikkas did not think the officer truly believed that imbecile could run Alexandros's holdings. They were just some things that needed to be said in order to gain the support of the army; Meleagros could at least tell his fellow soldiers he had tried. It left out Perseus even though Perseus outranked Meleagros; this was, of course, by design. His comrade had made it very clear he was with Ptolemaios on this one.

"Leonnatos, Aristonous — inform the cavalry of the developments. Meleagros, talk to the infantry, convince them of this path, the right path."

His orders were followed with shock precision by his loyal men, but Meleagros held fast. As Leonnatos and Aristonous gathered their gear and prepared to leave the room, Meleagros stepped forward once more.

"Have we agreed to this? Have we voted on this?" He looked about the room of officers, officers whose ancient duty it was to choose a new king of Makedonia. A duty Perdikkas hoped they had forgotten over the many years away from their homeland. "It is the army's duty, after all, King Perdikkas, to confirm their King. Not yours."

As Meleagros spoke, he made his way up to the stage to confront Perdikkas. Once more, he prepared for a fight. This day had barely begun and already he was exhausted. The fact that he had not slept the night before was not much of a boon to his health either. Any more confrontations and Perdikkas believed he might as well just curl up and die.

But he would not, and he could not. There was too much at stake for him to do that. All of Alexandros's empire lay in his palm. If he could just tighten his grip a bit more, gain a few more loyalists, he would own it.

Perdikkas gazed back at the ekklesia. His men were thumping spears on the ground, which was a good sign. He turned to glance at his loyalist in the elite corps. They nodded at him. He had it. He could taste the power. Taking a deep breath, Perdikkas began to speak for what he hoped was the last time today.

"Then vote! Make your choice my comrades in arms. Do you support Meleagros and Arridaios? Or myself and our council?" Intentionally, he had left out Ptolemaios's proposal, posing as if he had reconciled with Ptolemaios, if only just to rile the older man up.

"Meleagros?" Eumenes question the assembly. Perdikkas held his breath as the men voted. He felt his heart rate increase and a bead of sweat formed on his brow. This was it.

At once, the men beat their spears to their shields. A few men spoke 'yay's, but overall, the officers had taken Perdikkas's side, allowing him to let go of the breath he was holding. It was over. Without even having to wait for the vote on his proposal, he knew he had won.

"Perdikkas?" the Karian asked. This time, he got the opposite response. The yays had the majority, and very few spears met shields.

"Perdikkas's proposal has the yays." The Karian continued. Perdikkas moved back into the center of the stage. He had the power now, not Perseus, not Nearchos, not Meleagros, and by the gods not Ptolemaios. Once again he relayed his orders. When they were this time obeyed without hesitation, Perdikkas was so happy he failed to see the look of disdain painted across Meleagros's face.

The officers picked up their gear from where they had laid it, mostly at their own side. Then the roughly hundred or so assembled men filed out the doors. The somatophylakes, sitting above the rest, waited for the procession to disband.

Once they had exited and the doors had closed, Perseus sprung to his feet. Leaving his doru and hoplon behind, he stormed over to where Perdikkas was standing, still reveling in his victory. Not ready for the sudden advance, Perdikkas stumbled backwards in shock.

"Are you a fucking idiot?!" Perseus yanked Perdikkas forward by the collar of his armor. The younger man was far stronger and far more agile than Perdikkas, something he had learned through various spars with his fellow bodyguard, leaving Perdikkas with little ability to move out of the grasp of his hand. Perdikkas stuttered, not expecting Perseus, of all people, to care so much about his proposal losing out. He quickly regained his cool, sliding into statesman mode even from this awkward position.

"I rolled your proposal into my own! A unified fro—"

Perseus rolled his eyes at the khilliarkhos. "No, you fool, you complete fool!" He let Perdikkas go, taking a few steps back. Perdikkas took a deep breath, then stood up straight. He eyed the rest of the somatophylakes letting go of the grip they had found on their weapons, but none moved their hands away from them. "I'm not talking about the proposal! I'm talking about fucking Meleagros!"

Perseus paced in circles, throwing his hands up to the ceiling. "By Athena herself!" Perseus wheeled back on him and thrust out an accusatory finger. "You trust Meleagros? Meleagros?! The man who wanted Arridaios on the Throne?!"

"Meleagros is an infantry captain, he will corral the pezhetairoi to our side of the argument and from there we ca—"

"From there? We're lucky if you haven't doomed us to early graves! If you really think that Meleagros will 'corral' the army to Rhoxana's son, then you have another thing coming." With one last glare shot in his direction, Perseus broke eye contact and stormed over to his seat. He leaned down to pick up his doru and hoplon. "Something I won't be part of."

Perdikkas looked towards Ptolemaios, wondering what kind of trick he was playing now. Ptolemaios, however, looked just as confused as Perdikkas, not that the acting convinced Perdikkas of his innocence. Whatever was going on, Perdikkas hoped to put a stop to it before it became a threat.

"And just where do you think you're going? You still have a job, a very sacred job, might I add, as the King's bodyguard."

"I won't bodyguard a dead body. I love Alexandros, but you really want us to guard his corpse? From what, death?"

Even Perdikkas was about to let out a smile to that. It was so odd, being sudden rivals with men he had been friends with, had drank and fought with, had feasted and been injured with for so long. As much as he hated Ptolemaios, there was no denying that he had been friends with the man for longer than they were enemies.

Perseus was already walking down the steps and had brushed past even Ptolemaios when he continued. His back was towards them, the shining armor glinting as the morning sun poked through the windows.

"No, I'm going to fix the problem you created with the army."

And then the alarms went off in Perdikkas' head. They could try to pretend they were still friendly all that they wanted, but in the end, their friendship was dead. They were rivals now, true rivals, with too much to lose to let the others succeed. Any move by former friends could mean certain death, or worse.

"No, you will not! Did I say you could leave?"

Perseus turned on his heel, pivoting back to face his brothers. "I'm not asking for permission. I'm going to save your sorry ass, and I won't even ask for thanks. Besides," he continued, walking backwards, "what are you going to do?"

It was a good question, for Perseus knew that Perdikkas would not dare kill or maim Perseus. He already had enough issues with the army as it was. Besides, Perdikkas doubted that even all of the somatophylakes could take down Perseus. The boy was a beast in individual combat. Thus he was at a crossroads. Let Perseus go, and risk him drawing the army to Ptolemaios's side; or try to stop him, and risk death.

Perdikkas chose the former option. If worse came to worst, he still had the hetairoi behind him. So Perseus just walked out the doors, his 'fuck you' to Perdikkas's authority complete.

"What now?" Lysimachos asked. Everyone seemed a bit shaken, even Ptolemaios, by Perseus outburst.

"We wait. One of them will turn the army around."

"And if they don't?"

"I'll deal with that bridge once we get there."

* * *

**So here we all are. Chapter II is one for the books and I am beyond excited to see what you all think. Please comment on characters, writing style, anything you think I can improve upon. **

**Some housekeeping notes:**

**I have a school trip this week, where I will be out in the woods from Wednesday till Sunday. I have orientation from Wednesday till Friday and classes start the following Monday (when Chapter III is supposed to be going up). I think I will get Chapter III up by that Monday but past that each chapter will probably take longer than two weeks to complete. I had wished to get more work done before I posted this story but my inspiration has always been fleeting. **

**Check Twitter for updates: ****LoverBo94183834**

**Striving to provide Southern hospitality the world over, **

**LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy)**


	3. III

"Rabbits need dignity and, above all, the will to accept their fate." — Richard Adams, _Watership Down_

* * *

**III**

* * *

Perseus and Meleagros offer up different visions to the troops. Perdikkas blanches at both and schemes with the Queen mother. In Athens, Annabeth's new life is revealed to her, while in Babylon Thaïs and Ptolemaios discuss strategy.

* * *

**THE BODYGUARD**

* * *

The Babylonian heat scorched everything it touched. Anything that hadn't been scorched was trampled by the bivouac set up by the Makedonian army. Scrubs, sand, rock, brush were all flattened underfoot of thousands of horses and men. To the banks of the river, every possible bit of space was taken up by a Makedonian soldier here, a Makedonian cavalryman there.

Men pissed in the open, their flaccid cocks streaming hot piss down the embankment. They shit in long, linear trenches dug into the fertile mud. The stench was overpowering. If there was food to be wasted it would be rotting in the river, but no man wasted food here. Still, chicken heads and pig legs were pilled up with the manure of the horses. Its stench intermingled with the shit, wafting out of the camp to mix with the rot emanating from Babylon itself.

The river endured it all. The blue river wound down from Anatolia, curved its way into Mesopotamia, and would eventually empty into the sea. It had endured far worse than the host currently trampling its banks under ignorant feet.

"Perseus! You have come in time!" The bushy-haired man made his way through the crowds of soldiers all streaming towards the platform at the center of camp. As a rock created an eddy in a stream, Grover parted the liquid mass of soldiers. He walked with that odd limp of his and was unadorned. Dressed only in a tunic, Perseus wondered if his friend had slept too well and too long the night before. It would explain his absence at the Council. "He talks as if he's Perikles, and refuses to shut up. He's got the men in an uproar."

Grover was an old friend, made when Perseus was just a boy. They had grown up in the forest together, had learned to fight together. Grover had traveled with Perseus to meet Alexandros. For so long they had shared in each other's triumph and had comforted each other in their losses.

"Of course he does. What's the crowd size?"

"More than a decent amount. I'll estimate a thousand by now, and he only just started."

Grover struggled to keep up with Perseus's footsteps. Perseus had quickly bolted ahead of Grover, anger propelling him towards Meleagros. The _somatophylax_ was faster and more agile than Grover by leaps and bounds, but there was an unnatural spring in his step today. He gripped his _doru_, having left the _hoplon_ and his helmet with Ethandros. Full battle armor might not sit well with Meleagros and the rest of the infantry.

"Fuck."

"Exactly."

Men greeted him with nods and waves as he passed into the heart of the bivouac. The further in he got, the smellier it got. He could tell the men wanted to leave this shithole. He had known that since he had joined Alexandros's army. No matter how much booty they had secured, these men wanted to go home. They wanted out of the Persian ways of Alexandros's court and wanted to go back to their families. Perseus couldn't blame them much. The _somatophylax _had come to Alexandros's side explicitly for the purpose of fighting his way through India — the rest of the army had not.

Alexandros had left their families behind to conquer the world, expecting his men to follow without question. It was his right as King, after all. And they did follow him to victory after victory — and ultimately to many thousands of deaths. They were tired. Alexandros was dead. Now was their time. So Meleagros, to them, represented their freedom. Home.

Perseus believed he had a decent enough alternative option for them.

The men grew more crowded as the duo marched deeper into camp. Many joined them, and they joined many others in advancing towards the center. The podium was large but wooden. Larger than the _Pnyx_, it was where Alexandros was going to give a speech detailing the plans for the invasion of Arabia. Meleagros stood on the stage now. Though Perseus could not yet see him, he could hear Meleagros's voice, a rougher accent from Northern Makedonia. Words were not yet distinct in Perseus' ear.

He was able to hear his fellow soldiers chatting. Their words did not fill him with confidence. They rumbled about Rhoxana, about their disdain of Alexandros's changes, and more than a few hortations for a return to Philip's days. Fortunately for him, he heard no ill will towards Alexandros himself. No one was going to speak ill of the dead, especially not of Alexandros.

"And Perdikkas thinks himself in charge! Because he received a ring! He thinks himself a king by way of a ring! Should we give ourselves to gaudy generals that strut around bejeweled?"

The men that now encircled Perseus and Grover chortled with laughter. Grover had guessed a thousand men joined Meleagros by the time Perseus arrived. By now perhaps a thousand more had joined in. They swayed back and forth, crowding against each other as they strained their necks for a view. With the hot sun at full effect and stuck in the middle of the sky, the crowd paid for their proximity with rivers of sweat. It beaded up on their foreheads and cheeks, along their unprotected arms, and no doubt underneath their cuirasses.

Sweat rolled down Perseus's body as well, but the fury boiling inside him must have kept him energetic. He shoved his way through the throng of soldiers. A few were offended but quickly realized who he was. The crowd began to part in front of him. "Make way!" a variety of voices shouted.

"We are not going to lie down in front of Perdikkas and kiss his feet. He takes us for granted, he takes us for fools. Perdikkas and the _somatophylakes _want to march us down to Arabia, then to Carthage, then whatever is past Okeanos! I wish to hear them dare speak to us like they deserve our lives!"

Meleagros continued on his tirade against Alexandros's generals. But as he opened his mouth to speak again, no words came out. His eyes widened slightly. Perseus stared up at him with a smirk when he stepped out of the crowd finally. No doubt, Meleagros had not been expecting to be followed by any of the senior officers.

"Meleagros!" Perseus had hopped onto the platform and Meleagros had shut his mouth. "You called?"

There was an uneasy bout of laughter from the crowd. They had seen his spear. Most of the soldiers were armed with their secondary weapons, the stabbing _xiphos_ or slashing _kopis_. Meleagros was not armed with anything but perhaps a dagger. After Malli, even Perseus could feel the men's fear.

He lifted the spear up, noticing Meleagros flinch, and jammed the point into the wood floor. No matter that he would either have to sharpen the point again or get a new _doru_, he had gotten his point across.

"Perseus, have you come to do your master Perdikkas's bidding? No — isn't your dictator Ptolemaios?"

The crowd chuckled uneasily, no longer feeling free to express their opinions. Masses, untamed, often tended towards the most appealing reward. They would holler and yell for blood without a reasonable man to stand up and say "Hold!" Perseus appearance was not just surprising to them, but was an easy way to quell untempered anger. Without Alexandros, this army was too easy to manipulate for one's own gain.

"I do my own bidding. I have always done my own bidding." Perseus moved forward, a few steps towards the center middle of the platform. Meleagros moved to counter. "But I don't do my own bidding on my own behalf. Tell me, comrade, for what goal do you morph the men's grief into anger?"

"They can be in both grief and anger!"

"I asked for your goal. Don't skirt my question."

The two men were circling each other now. Around them, the troops fanned out in an uneven circle. Each radius was not like the next, making the amphitheater oblong. It must have been half the bivouac coming to see the debate. Grover had not lied, Perseus had come in time. It felt like one of Perikles and Kleon's great debates at the Pnyx. Except instead of trying to sway potters and poets, Perseus and Meleagros were fighting for the allegiance of battle-hardened soldiers and subsequently the fate of the world.

"My goal is to ensure that Makedonia rules Persia, like these men have fought and died for! We must have a Makedonian king, and these men will help ensure that smooth transition."

"So you use them?"

"I fight with them. For the same goal."

Meleagros kept his cool, staring down Perseus with an unflinching gaze. His eyes were hard set, his brow furled. While Perseus's sudden appearance had shaken the officer's plans, they had not broken them. Perseus was now but an obstacle. Unluckily for Meleagros, Perseus was very good at being an obstacle.

"So your wish is for Arridaios to rule?"

"A proper Makedonian King."

"Unlike Alexandros, I suppose?"

Men murmured around him, their soft words making their way to Perseus as nothing more than mumbled sounds and a few standout "what?"s.

"What do you mean?" Meleagros's confidence faltered again. Internally, Perseus smirked.

"It's just — didn't you say at the council meeting that you didn't think Alexandros was legitimate?"

Meleagros glared at him now, furious. He was losing the crowd, and it showed. Meleagros had tried to overexploit discontent with Alexandros's rule but had forgotten that that discontent was fleeting and infinitesimally small compared to the army's adoration of their king.

"You have long been critical of our King, may he forever enjoy Elysion. But that crossed a line. Are you trying to convince them that _you _should be the one to choose the next King? You who doesn't believe Alexandros should have been our King?"

"It was a mistake, a slip up. You've had your fair share as well. Should I bring up Malli to remind you?"

Perseus flinched. He made a mental note of that. Even Meleagros, the stubborn fool that he was, was smart enough not to bring up Malli. Knowing he struck a nerve, the second-in-command smiled maniacally. Oh, if Meleagros was not dead by dusk, Perseus would make sure he did not survive the night.

"Malli? _Malli_?! Malli where you sat in the back, in the third wave? Malli where I was under enemy fire from all sides, with our King wounded? Malli where you ordered your wave to hold off from saving the King? That Malli?"

Meleagros faltered once more. Perseus's second-in-command had apparently done absolutely no preparation for any antagonism. That was all well and good for Perseus, as it gave him the advantage.

"And now you want to place an imbecile King on the Throne. A King who would need a permanent advisor. Preferably you, I suppose?"

He had Meleagros backed into a corner now. But, like any cornered animal, Meleagros fought back with ferocity.

"Better me than Perdikkas. And better an imbecile than a half-Baktrian mutt!"

Perseus was not surprised but was still taken aback. Such language was normal for Meleagros, but only when drunk. It was the type of language that had nearly gotten the man killed by Alexandros, after the Battle of Hydaspes. It could get him killed here too. Perseus scanned the crowd and found Grover was staring at Meleagros, an odd stare plastered across his friend's face. Following Grover's line of sight, Perseus watched Meleagros curiously, keeping mindful of time.

"Calm yourself. Don't forget your rank, Meleagros. I don't know whence or from whom you think you got the power to critique the King in such a manner, but it won't stand. I won't stand it. And I doubt they will stand it either." Perseus gestured out to the crowd, but failed to look at them. Instead, he kept his eyes fixated on Meleagros's movements.

"I offer them power! I offer them freedom! They will stand for it." Meleagros spoke with power, projecting his words in a desperate plea to a crowd he was steadily losing. His speech was like his movements. Each sentence was exaggerated, with dramatic crescendos and pauses. And on top of that, Perseus' subordinate's face was turning redder by the second. Meleagros was mad and desperate. Good. Perseus had him right where he needed him.

With a quick nod into the crowd, Perseus advanced on Meleagros. The older man stumbled backwards, no doubt expecting to be cut in half. To show him that he meant no harm, Perseus raised his hands while walking forward. His head quickly checked the crowd. Grover was gone.

"And when you have their loyalty, what then? Will you send them home or keep the kingdom for yourself? You will be regent for Arridaios, and the imbecile King will listen to every word you say. You always wanted power. You will never give it up. You will _never_," Perseus bellowed to the crowd, "give these men the freedom they want. The freedom they deserve. _Never_."

Meleagros glared underneath Perseus's gaze. The commander of the infantry had a head on the older man, so Meleagros had to glare upwards. He tried to shrug underneath Perseus's advance to no avail; deciding it was not going to work, he spit on Perseus's face. Sticky, wet spittle stuck all over Perseus's cheeks, nose, and because he had closed his eyes in time, his eyelids. A hand and forearm lifted to wipe off the fluid.

"It seems the baby is throwing a fit."

Perseus heard footfalls of increasing intensity behind him. Gear clamored with each step, spears tapping against shields, cuirasses scraping _pteruges_. Meleagros saw what Perseus heard and his eyes widened. He struggled harder to slip out of his commander's grip, a cornered rat. Perseus gave Meleagros a sly grin, then whacked at his knees with the back of his _kopis_. Far stronger than Meleagros, this hit caused a buckling of the knees. Meleagros fell into a kneeing position. Without breaking pace, the guards held the now-disgraced officer to the floor. A circle of _dorata _surrounded the supplicant.

"Dike will curse you for this. Nemesis will avenge me." Meleagros glared up at Perseus from between two _dorata_, but said nothing else.

A commotion ran through the crowd, which had held so still for so long. Perseus did not even need to check out the disturbance to know it was not a threat. Grover had read his mind perfectly. Meleagros's supporters were being subdued; Perseus's sword would get bloodied even more tonight. The thought made him sad; executions were his least favorite of all things. Perseus's dislike of them, however, just made his blood boil when his hand was forced. Still, executing twenty men would not make his soul rest any easier. Not that it currently did.

"Mighty Zeus expects justice. I am but his servant."

"You are Perdikkas's errand boy, from now on. You seal your own fate!"

"The Moirai have their own path laid out for me. Neither you nor I have any claim to know what it is."

Meleagros did not respond; his men did not scream out as they were dragged away. Perseus turned his head. Like the noble Greeks they were, some even walked solemnly in front of their captors with their heads held high. Perseus turned back to Meleagros. Only a moment before he had been driven by extreme determination; now he was plagued by indecision.

Meleagros had not been a friend, but he had been a comrade in arms for the past six years. They had fought against a common enemy, during which time he was mostly a valiant warrior. But he had insulted not only his King and his King's family, but also a close friend of Perseus's. If he really was to ensure Alexandros's legacy and Rhoxana's life, he would have to act without hesitation.

Perseus turned round, walked away from Meleagros and his men. He grasped his spear that was still stuck in the wood. The cornel wood shaft felt strong in his hands. Perhaps his earlier fear that he had broken the spear was unfounded.

A yank upwards proved him wrong. The spear tip broke off, having been lodged in the wood, and the shaft snapped in his tight grip. He had spoken too soon. Yet for a moment Perseus considered jabbing the broken wood into Meleagros's neck to let him bleed out. With brute strength, he could get the rugged shaft all the way through if he wanted.

Perseus took a deep breath and shook his head. Too savage and barbaric, too cruel a death for a Greek.

"Spear," he commanded. One of his men stepped out of the circle, handing Perseus an unbroken spear. The wood was as strong as the spear Perseus had had. The weight was no different either. He looked down at Meleagros. The man held no fear in his eyes, accepting death nobly.

"_Chaire._"

"_Chaire_."

Perseus thrust the spear straight through Meleagros's brain, the tiny tip easily piercing the hard skull. Perseus found resistance, but he had punched a spear through so many men wearing more armor than this that the extra effort was minimal. Meleagros's eyes rolled back into his skull, blood trickled down his forehead, his body fell backward. Perseus pulled the spear back out of his skull. The men in the circle parted to let Meleagros's dead body flop back.

Without taking his eyes off of his dead comrade, Perseus handed the spear back to the soldier. He did not bother to clean off the blood. He slid next to Meleagros's head and closed his eyelids. Perseus reached a hand into his pocket and deposited a drachma onto Meleagros's chest. He tried to think of words to say; nothing came to mind. There was not enough respect for Meleagros in life to wish Elysion on the man, but nor was there enough animosity to pray for the Fields of Punishment or Tartaros.

In the end, he chose neutrality. "Let the Ferryman guide you."

Standing back up, Perseus turned towards the crowd. The men were not against him, but they certainly were not happy about that display of power. Alexandros had just died. They were all still in as much grief as ever, and with the line of succession unclear, they were confused as to whom to follow. This display of power must have confused them as much as it scared them.

Remembering Ethandros's words, Perseus flinched.

Was he giving off the impression that he was, in fact, the leader? Only Alexandros had ever exercised the power of capital punishment. For Perseus to take that power and claim it for himself was a major statement. Perdikkas would not be happy.

Perdikkas was a matter for later, however.

"It has been a long day." Perseus's spoke softly. There was no fight left in him. Thoughts of Alexandros and Meleagros and the ensuing power struggle consumed all of his energies. He wondered how many more of his former comrades he would have to kill. A long, raspy breath escaped him. He turned to the crowd. He lied confidence with his voice.

"We have lost too much. Our King, who crossed the world and conquered it. A friend to us all. A man we all love and respect.

"But he is gone now. This empire he held together will crumble if we let it. Understand that if we stand together, we will preserve everything we fought for. Everything our brothers-in-arms died for!"

Perseus's voice got louder, but there was not any enthusiasm in it. If this is what it took to quell a revolt in the army, he dreaded the wars to come.

"Go back to your tents. Grieve. Cry until you have no more tears to spend, then cry without tears. Then rest. The time will come where you are called upon to perform your duty. And when that time comes, we will be home-bound. I promise you."

Perseus gave his men directions, and they obeyed. Thousands followed the same paths to their sleeping grounds as they had for the months spent camped outside the walls of Babylon. The fact that they obeyed without hesitation made him breathe easier. One complication down, and from it arouse a dozen more.

Turning his head, Perseus forced a smile towards Grover. It was not a graceful smile, nor anything near enough to assure his friend. His assistant gave him a concerned look, but Perseus waved his friend's gaze off his bearded face. "No, not now. I just need time to sleep. Rest a bit. Then we will meet with Ptolemaios together. There is much to discuss."

Grover nodded, and Perseus could sense his reluctance at being excluded from Perseus's emotions. That would come, in time. Perseus had to process the loss on his own for now.

**Π**

The white plaster along the walls was completely barren but for his wardrobe and armor stand. A lonely bed sat dead center. It stared out along the banks of the Euphrates, across the city, and into the wastelands of Mesopotamia. The view was incredible, Perseus could not deny. The platform that overlooked the city was filled with columns, towering sandstone structures whose glory put everything Pella had to offer to shame. Perseus wondered what that royal city looked like now; the amount of booty flowing back there must have changed something, hopefully for the better.

For so long Pella had been a backwater in Greek society, barely a provincial capital compared to the marble beauty of Athens or the gilded temples of Korinth. It was a city filled with the poor, desperate masses. Coming from a small town in the hills of Makedonia, Perseus had never seen anything more shocking.

When the realization came — he forgot which city it was in, but one of the Persian ones — that all of these cities were more or less the same, he had ranted with the King for hours. Why, he remembered asking a million different ways, why was there so much bad in the world?

"It is simple, my young Perseus," the King had replied. With his signature smile adorning his face, where you could see how much more he knew, Alexandros' fingers ran down Perseus' cheek. Then only an infantry officer, Perseus tensed. Mix-matched eyes and golden hair, the King gave off a divine feel. Although the King claimed descent from Zeus, Perseus thought he bore a much closer resemblance to the statues of Apollo.

"Suffering is not simple."

"Not simple to endure, no. That is our challenge, you see. Suffering must be endured if we are to achieve anything great. Tell me, have you read Homer?"

Perseus ripped his gaze, so freely given, away from the King. "I cannot read," he whispered.

The King's hand fell from his soldier's cheek. "What, did my mother teach you nothing? I have to admit I am ashamed of her."

It was a jesting tone, nothing rude or malign meant of it. But the subject was always tricky for Perseus. The generals around Alexandros were learned men, the aristocracy of Makedonia. On the other hand, Perseus was little more than a rural farm boy-turned soldier. Olympias had desired him due to his athleticism, but the Queen had little regards as to his education.

"It is not her fault. She gave me a much better life than the one I was living, and she taught me what I needed to know. How to fight and how to lead men. Everything necessary to support you."

"Yes, yes, of course." The King spoke with subdued, distracted words. "But still, reading is an important skill. Come by my tent every night, and I shall teach you letters."

"I thank you for your gift, my King," Perseus said, bowing slightly. If there was more light in the room and less tan upon the younger man's cheeks, there would be an obvious blush. "I will strive to serve you for it."

"Yes…" the King trailed off, looking up Perseus' half-nude body, "I suppose you shall." He poured two cups of wine out, then cut them with water. "But back to your initial anger. It is attractive, that passion. But focus it on another issue. Suffering does not deserve your attention, perseverance does. Akhilleus says as much in _the Iliad_. Book Twenty-Four.

'For such is the way the gods have spun (destiny) for wretched mortals: to live a life of suffering, but they themselves are without sorrow.'" The King handed Perseus the cup and took a sip from his own. "'For two urns are set on Zeus' floor of gifts that he gives, the one of evils, the other of good things. To whomever Zeus who delights in thunder gives a mixed lot, that man meets now with evil, now with good; but to whomever he gives only from the urn of sorrows, him he makes to be degraded by man, and evil hunger drives him over the face of the sacred earth, and he wanders honoured neither by gods nor by mortals.'"

Perseus looked away from the city that was nothing but an empty capital for a dead king . He would be out of here soon enough.

Ethandros had walked in with his _ariston_ earlier, but Perseus waved him away. If he ate or drank anything right now he would throw up. Meleagros's face fluttered in his mind's eye. It was not that Perseus held any particular care for the man, or that his death brought him great shame. Meleagros had been a nuisance for too long, a nuisance Alexandros would have dealt with if it had not meant a revolt in the army. Perseus was lucky to have built up enough support and trust with the infantry that they would fall in line behind him. It was only his first offense against them, after all. He had to tread carefully from now on if he was to ensure Alexandros's legacy.

His legacy rested with solely Rhoxana and her unborn child. Securing her place would mean convincing the army. Convincing the army meant countless hours of speeches and promising them mountains of gold and, yes, going home. He did not know how to secure them their ultimate goal without ruining Alexandros' empire. There were not enough fresh recruits coming in from Makedonia to fill the current ranks, the Persians were not entirely — enough.

Perseus sat down on his bed and took a long breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He had the weight of the world on his chest and it was showing through his overwhelming fatigue. As much as he knew he had to, Perseus had no desire to go talk with Ptolemaios tonight. He was too tired; sleep had evaded the young general for too many nights. Eventually he had collapsed in his room one morning this week, passing out from lack of sleep. Ethandros found him many hours later, still asleep, leaned against the side of his bed with nothing but the floor beneath him. Perseus knew he needed sleep and craved it desperately; all of his prayers to Hypnos had gone unanswered.

Stress of the future, and a longing for the past, kept him up at night. He worried not for Alexandros's future in Hades. Elysion was his final destination, where he would find himself peace finally. Perhaps Hephaistion was there as well. Aphrodítê herself knew how much the King missed his best friend. She also knew how much Perseus missed his King.

Perseus remembered the first time he had seen Alexandros, atop the magnificent Bukephalas. After spending most of his early life in Pella and the woods of Makedonia, Olympia sent Perseus to her son, to serve as his officer. It was in the plains along the banks of the Jaxartes River that Perseus had his first taste of combat alongside the already-storied King against the mythical Skythians no less. From afar he could admire Alexandros's tactical brilliance and his willingness to lead the charge. The King was a model for all men in battle. But up close, the King was absolutely beautiful. Jaw-droppingly so, even.

Alexandros was skeptical of him at first. Not that he blamed the King; Perseus had missed out on all of the Persian campaigns and too many Makedonians were not pleased with the King's vision of cultural integration of his empire. Over time, Perseus had ingratiated himself with the King, proving himself a loyal companion and ardent supporter of his vision.

For six years, Perseus followed Alexandros around India. Through the deserts of Gandhara and the Jungles of the Indus, they created the greatest Empire the world had ever seen. During that time they drew even closer; Hephaistion was not happy with their relationship at first but had warmed to Perseus as well.

Wind blew in through the colonnade, hot and dry. Only a faint scent of the Euphrates was carried along with the wispy desert air. Perseus took another deep breath. It was time for a nap, if that was at all possible. His whole body ached from head to toe. His mind ached most of all, the weight of too many cares causing a head-splitting headache. So Perseus pushed himself off the bed, walking over to the dresser. He pulled out a water jug he had carried from home, a gift of his mother's, depicting Akhilleus killing Hektor on one side, and Perseus killing Medousa on the other. Ethandros had refilled the water jug after Perseus drank the whole thing in one fell swig, having stormed in from the bivouac dripping in sweat.

Perseus poured himself a fresh cup. The water flooded his throat, refreshing the desert it had become. He chugged the cup in one fell swoop. Instantly, his head began to feel better. It was one of the odd things he had learned about himself in the aftermath of Malli. Headaches, sores, aches, they could all go away with a fresh cup of water. Not all of them at once and the relief was temporary, but it was a useful tool. He wondered which god had blessed him with this gift. Perseus prayed to most of them, Athena, Zeus, and Poseidon above all, so perhaps one of them had given it to him.

Perseus poured himself another cup, his free hand blindly fumbling with his waist-belt. The taste was not the best he had ever had — a stream in India held that honor — but it was refreshing nonetheless. The cup found its way to the dresser once more while his waist-belt dropped to the floor. He tugged the _peplos_ upwards and off his body. The white fabric piled up over the waist-belt.

If he had been in a more melancholy mood — more melancholy than he currently was — he would have traced his scars, the chiseling of his muscles, tanned to brown by constant warfare in the heat of Helios. He would have remembered the battles in which he had gotten each, would have shed tears over the scars he had gotten for defending his King. A King he had eventually failed, unable to protect him from Thanatos at the end.

Perseus undid his sheets, sliding into the bed. He pushed those thoughts from his mind, trying to breathe them out in order to just sleep. Twisting onto his side, pushing one hand underneath his pillow, he reached the other hand out to trace the empty space next to him.

* * *

**THE SIGNET-BEARER**

* * *

Perdikkas was not in a good mood. Not only had Perseus reaffirmed his control of the army, but he had faced more defiance than he had expected from the other officers. Ptolemaios he had expected to resist, but the _chilliarkhos _had not the forethought to predict the reactions of the other officers. For so long he and Leonnatos had worked to gain an understanding of the rest of the _somatophylakes_ that they had forgotten about the rest of the officers. Meleagros's defiance on the issue of Rhoxana's baby was an issue, one that would need more than just Perseus's spear through his head.

Perdikkas knew he had the rest of the _somatophylakes_'s backing on Rhoxana's child's legitimacy. Perseus would fight to the death for Rhoxana; the boy was as loyal as he was stupid. The rest might not go that far, but they all knew their chances of success in the coming conflict rested on firmer ground with Alexandros's son ruling.

The coming conflict. Immortal gods he hated thinking in such terms. If he kept planning as if conflict was inevitable, it would become inevitable. There was no reason that the coming conflict had to happen. If he kept an eye on the two most ambitious generals — Ptolemaios and Lysimakhos — then Perdikkas knew he could keep a firm grip on any potential conflicts. Kleomenes could be easily swayed into keeping an eye on Ptolemaios. Lysimakhos could be kept in Thraki, dealing with those rampaging barbarians till he grew old and grey. The conflict was most definitely avoidable, and his power could be secured fairly easily.

Of course, there was one other loose end that needed to be… tightened before his power would be absolutely secure. Thus why he was currently making his way to the chambers of the Queen. She had summoned him with a vague message on "other claimants." There was no doubt in Perdikkas's mind about what she had meant.

The hallways of Nebuchadnezzar's palace were always so disgustingly overwhelming. They lacked character and color and were too inducive to infighting. The building itself meant power. To inhabit it gave one an air of authority that was ill-suited to men. Perdikkas had seen it first-hand in Ptolemaios on many occasions.

Perdikkas halted in front of the Queen's door, her two guards crossing their _dorata_ in front of the door. They were good men, the Queen's guards. Alexandros had hand picked the best fighters in his empire to serve as her personal guard; whether that was a sign of his love or his paranoia, Perdikkas could not say. The King had so often feared plots that did not exist and was not above murdering those who could pose a threat. As the two guards opened the door to the Queen without a word passing between any of them, the Signet-Bearer realized the Queen might have as much a ruthless streak as her deceased King.

The expansive room leapt into view once the doors were completely opened. Drab hallways made room for exquisite mosaics and etchings. Blue tile lined both walls and ceiling, only breaking off for golden lions and horses. It was the largest room in the palace, a gift Alexandros felt he had to bestow on a bride he would soon abandon. Not that Perdikkas truly minded — big, gaudy rooms were not his style. What he craved was far grander.

"Perdikkas," came the soft words of a Persian accent. Before the Queen could make herself viewable, Perdikkas bowed his head to the floor. After murdering Kallisthenes over an argument about proskynesis, the King had settled for the head bowed. 'Let me greet you before you see me,' he had said. Well, no one wanted to argue with a sword against their throat.

"Rise," the Queen said. Perdikkas lifted his head and smiled softly at the Queen. She had garbed herself in black silks and fabrics, garments that she would wear for however long she wished the Empire to be in mourning. Her feet were bare, her hair was in a loose bun. It was all appropriate. Showing too much concern for mortal pleasures now would be uncouth, to say the least. There was one concern that he had, that the whole empire had, sitting underneath her dark garments. A round protrusion held Alexandros's heir, getting riper by the day.

"My Queen," Perdikkas began. "I received your summons, and came as quickly as possible. First of all, let me tell you how sorry I am for your loss. You know, as much as and more than any of us do how painful this is."

She gave him a soft smile in return for his words, but did not say much else. Understandable, given that the two rarely interacted. If he was being honest, Perdikkas did not think he had seen the Queen since before they had begun planning the Arabian campaign, around three months ago. Besides that, he had interacted with her only sparingly. Perseus was really the only _somatophylakes_ that the Queen had a regular interaction with, yet Perdikkas refused to hand over such a job as he now was doing to the boy-soldier.

"And as much as I would love to be able to sit and grieve for months on end, we cannot. Our King left us with too great a task, which you obviously understand since you have summoned me. A wise move, my Queen."

"Thank you, kind Perdikkas," she spoke in a Persian accent that had wilted in the Babylonian sun but failed, like a weed, to completely die. "Would you like some wine?"

"A generous offer my Queen. I will gladly accept."

Though Perdikkas knew he held the power in this relationship, there were still reasons to tread lightly. The Queen had more backers, powerful backers, than even she realized sometimes. If there were just a few misspoken words or too big an insult, Perseus or any number of the still-powerful Persian leaders could rain fury upon him. And of course, her father was not an insignificant force still.

Rhoxana called for a slave to come pour them each a _kylix_ of wine. Just as the Queen preferred, the wine was cut with a jug of water. The Queen directed him into a chair, and he sat once she sat. Sipping his own drink, Perdikkas waited, slightly impatient, for the Queen to speak. She sipped wine at a far more leisurely pace than Perdikkas, a pace more appropriate for a woman.

"I have two sister-wives sitting in Susa at the moment. Two sister-wives that Alexandros visited recently." She paused. "Two sister-wives, who, my sources tell me, are pregnant."

Rhoxana left her cup alone, staring at Perdikkas. Her words confirmed what Perdikkas already suspected. Alexandros had gone to Susa to meet with his wives and take petitioners from the Eastern part of his empire only a few months ago. It was not much of a shock that they might be pregnant, though it was unfortunate.

"And you wish for me to…" Perdikkas trailed off, expectantly.

The Queen stayed taciturn and turned her head away from the conversation. Continued silence left Perdikkas feeling uncomfortable, but he needed orders from the Queen. This was not something he could do on his own authority.

"Don't make me say it, it's too horrid." The Queen's voice was muffled by her hand over her mouth, showcasing her discomfort towards the issue. Normal, considering that a woman ordering an execution — a woman ordering much of anything but wine — was entirely uncouth.

"I have to know what you command."

Perdikkas stared into her face, truly gorgeous, blessed as it was by Aphrodite. The Queen looked to be contemplating her options.

"You say it."

"What?"

"You say what you think must be done. I'll tell you if I agree."

"You want them out of the picture, secluded somewhere."

The Queen did not respond, but Perdikkas did not think she would have.

"You want them dead."

Now, the Queen nodded. She said nothing, but the nod was enough. Perdikkas knew what needed to be done.

"Very well then. I will have men deal with them in Susa," Perdikkas said.

"No." The Queen turned back to face him, her eyes harder and more determined now than he had seen them since she entered the room. "Bring them here."

"Here? To the palace? Is not the whole point to get them out of the way?"

"My men will deal with them, Perdikkas. Bring them here, so I can be assured they are dead."

Nothing said today had shocked him more than this. The Queen was normally so quiet and reserved, not one for courtly politics, and not one for these types of moves.

"Do you not trust in my abilities, my Queen?"

"I trust in you, Perdikkas, but very few other men."

"But you trust your men?"

Rhoxana nodded her response.

"If my Queen commands it."

His Queen had commanded very little, actually. Perdikkas assumed that was to assuage her soft consciousness. Death was best left to men, Perdikkas believed, but the Queen got her way. He needed her child if he was to survive the coming war.

"You may rise, Perdikkas. Thank you for your assistance today, it was much appreciated."

"Thank you for your audience, my Queen." He bowed his head once more after rising from his chair, paying his respects. "Let me know if there is anything at all you may require."

She smiled softly at him. "I require very little. But thank you for your offer." Two guards helped him out of the room. Turning back to glance at the Queen one last time, Perdikkas saw her knitting on her bed.

_Women_, he thought. _Not a care in the world._

* * *

**THE DAUGHTER OF ATHENS**

* * *

Two weeks.

Thirteen days, to be exact.

That's how long she had to be free.

Relatively speaking.

Her father had come home from work in a fit of excitement this afternoon. Accompanying him was the announcement Annabeth had dreaded her entire life.

She was to be married. Her father had found a wealthy enough family to marry her into, a family that had a well-off enough son for her to marry, a son that was brave enough to be her husband. Everything was enough for everyone but her. She wanted far more than what was enough for her family or for his family. She needed to escape.

Unfortunately for her, Annabeth's father understood her desire to bolt. Thus why he had hired guards to watch her door day-and-night. It was suffocating to hear them breathe right across the door to her room. There was no way she could think with their yawns interrupting her thoughts every other minute. Her plans were pig-feed now, her mental state scrambled.

Annabeth had skipped _deipnon _in vain protest. She had stormed out of the room after her father's announcement as if she were Hera in a rage over another of Zeus' affairs. Tears were threatening to fall, but she refused their egress. Her frustration needed an outlet, so she let it plan. Annabeth would not let her father win, not over her dead body.

Together, her and her whirlwind of emotions packed what was only entirely necessary. Excess would only serve to slow her down. If Annabeth wanted any chance of making it out of the city, she would have to leave before _deipnon _was over. Otherwise her father could shut the gates until she was found.

She had stuffed an extra _peplos_ into her satchel, along with an extra pair of athletic sandals. Extra undergarments were unnecessary, as her breasts were too little developed for a breast-strap and underwear had always been uncomfortable to her. A rough map of the city had fallen into her bag right as her father knocked.

The satchel fell to the floor with an obnoxious 'thump'. Tears once again demanded to fall. She dabbed at her eyes again, trying to dry her well. She would not appear weak in front of her father.

But by the gods she wanted to rip out his eyes and feed them to him. Force him to taste half the shit he had forced her to take. She hated her own father. Gods above and Hades below she hated him. It was a sick and awful realization.

She balled and unballed her fists over and over again. Growling, she walked, stiff as a rod, to unlock the door. It opened with the same aggravating creak it had worked through for years. Her father stood behind it, cloaked in fading light. He wore a soft, sorry smile that she bought nothing of.

"Father."

"Anaïta Bethzatha."

"I told you not to call me that any more. My name is Annabeth."

"And the name you were given at your birth was Anaïta Bethzatha."

"Were you even at my birth?"

"You've asked this again and again, and again and again I will refuse to answer it."

Annabeth stood in the doorway, scowling at her father. Her father stood opposite, giving her a stern warning look. He looked as upset as her, though he was mad at her and she at him. The impasse continued for a while. Finally, her father broke it.

"You'll be meeting your husband tomorrow morning."

"I won't be."

"And why is that?" Her father looked her over, perhaps trying to take in any sign of a threat on her. Instead what he found was her knapsack, clutched firmly within her hands. Scanning the room, he turned back to face her. His pitying stare hardened into a glare, but just for a moment. She could feel the air and stress flowing out of him as he let out a sigh. "You're not going to run away."

"And why is that?" She mocked, adopting his own voice as her own. "You're not going to stop me," Annabeth added in her own voice.

"Because," Annabeth glanced down at her father's hands. She found them clenched, nails digging into palms. She took a slight step backwards, "you will do your duty to Athens. Antiphalos is a respectable young man, barely a dozen years your elder —"

"Barely a dozen years my elder?" Annabeth had always hated how high and girlish her voice sounded. It was a mark of her status, the high pitch of her voice signaled that she was in fact the lowest of the low in Athenian society, for a girl ranked below even slaves. Her father would have surely protested against that statement, but it was true. As a woman she might be above slaves, but as a girl she was below them.

"Anaïta, calm down, and don't yell. It's entirely unbecoming of you. You are a woman of Athens. You have a duty to uphold this democracy, a duty to provide the next generation of leaders for this great city." Annabeth refused to meet her father's eyes as he spoke. It was sad, the extent to which her father truly believed in the idea of Athens. Looking at his eyes revealed the tenacity of his conviction. He was not a zealot for his cause, but an emotional orator who could move an audience to tears with enchanting ideas of representation and a rule by the people. If she looked at him in the eyes while he spoke, Annabeth was certain her walls would crack. So she simply stared at the floor.

"Why do I have to do my duty to a city that refuses to do anything for me?"

"What?" Annabeth could not see her father's face, but she could see the confusion in his tone.

"I don't have the right to vote or be an official. I don't have the ability to make laws or pass judgement. Why should I fight to uphold this system if it does not fight for me?"

Though she made her argument to the floor, it still resonated with her father. She could hear him sigh once more, this time signaling his disapproval. "Athens protects you," he replied, his tone tired, "it keeps you safe, it keeps your belly fully and a roof over your head."

"I could go to Sparta and get all of that and more." Finding her strength once more, she looked into his eyes again. "Or Pella, or Korinth, or any number of other cities. Hades, I could go to Babylon and be Alexandros's whore and get more than just that!"

Her father fumed in front of her, his eyes growing darker. She knew that the comparison between his beloved Athens and the hated Spartans and Makedonians would cause him to erupt, or at the very least get close to erupting. "Don't you dare compare us to those half-barbarian Persian-lovers. Not in while you are in my house."

Annabeth opened her mouth to respond, but her father cut her off with his hand. "No. No more, lest I lose my sense of mercy. From now on until your marriage, you will have two guards posted at your door at all times. If you try to run, you will fail. You will do your duty, just as I have done mine, just as Helen has done hers. Do you understand?"

Though she said no more, Annabeth's insides were churning with hatred towards her father, towards Athens, towards "democracy", towards her "brothers", towards her stepmother, towards every one of the bastards that told her she could be nothing but a housewife. Every part of her told her to argue back, to keep fighting, to get in her father's face. She knew it would feel so good to keep going, to know that she was right. She also knew that doing so could make her situation much, much worse. Instead of fighting any more, Annabeth stormed to her bed and sat down. Her back faced her father, her arms were crossed, her breathing was deep and irate.

Her father closed the door, content to keep away from any more fighting.

**Π**

The worst part about her day after that was when her father came by to drop off a few scrolls for her. He told her that he had come to terms with her desire to read, that he was not sure whether or not her new master would let her read, and that he hoped to ease her pain. If he had given her scrolls and books even just a day ago, Annabeth would have accepted them with far more enthusiasm. She would have seen it as a step in the right direction for their relationship, a sign that he was coming over to her side of the argument. It came too late, however, and all she viewed those scrolls with was scorn. The avid reader had not even bothered to pick them up.

She wanted to. A less rebellious voice in her brain told her that picking them up was not a big deal. Who would know if she read them or not? Who would know if she had accepted the olive branch? The firebrand in her replied that _she _would. It was not just a matter of scorning her father, or a matter of putting on an upset face whenever he rolled by. It was an internal matter, a matter of moral superiority. Annabeth would know if Annabeth caved in. The gods would know if she had.

_The gods._ Annabeth chuckled.

At the expense of becoming the next Sokrates, the young Athenian girl, soon to be a woman, allowed herself to scoff at the gods. How many nights had she prayed to Athena, to Artemis, to Hera, how many nights had she received nothing in way of response. They had forsaken her, the goddesses sworn to protect women and young girls. Even Zeus, the King of the Gods, the son of Kronos and the bringer of Justice, had forced Dike to look away from Annabeth's plight. She had never hated the gods as much as she did today.

Either Helen or her father, or both, assumed that Annabeth would be dangerous tonight. Helen did not sleep in their room, but did not go out. Annabeth could easily tell when her stepmother would sleep with another man because her path always took her past the exterior walls of their room. Through the small window Annabeth could both hear and see Helen depart. And it was not a one-way street. Many a night Helen had told Annabeth "go to bed Anaïta Bethzatha," to which Annabeth would always reply "that's not my name." Their quick, almost mindless conversation ended there every time.

There was no quick banter tonight. Annabeth could not sleep at all, so she would have heard her stepmother leave at any point in the night. For the majority of the night, Annabeth just brooded in her anger. She punched Helen's bed, threw pillows, yelled into the sheets. Her feet paced back and forth across the room dozens of times. She was so furious that she once contemplated tearing apart the scrolls, deciding against it because there was a part of her that was still curious about what was inside of them. Not that she checked.

Later in the night, when the moonlight gave her enough light to read by, her grey eyes scanned Sappho's scroll again. Her favorite stash of scrolls, Annabeth had spent a month of sleepless, Helen-less nights transcribing her father's collection of the poems. They were her favorites because they let her dream of a world where girls ran the show. They loved one another freely, with no worry about men lording over them…

But Sappho's reality was not her own. In fact, she wondered if it ever was reality. All Annabeth knew of Lesbos was the rarely-discussed massacre of Mytilene during the Peloponnesian wars. Women were not in charge, except for perhaps Amazon women, but they were more myth than fact. Once, when the world was new and intriguing for men, some brave soul believed in a place where women ruled. She wondered how much ridicule they got for suggesting such a thing.

At daybreak, there was a knock on her door to give a fair warning. Rays of sunlight preceded her father as he opened the door and gave Annabeth her first glimpse of the guards. Their backs were to her, but she could still make out the rather regular armor they wore. There was nothing too special about it, just a hard shell of leather over their chest and another tube around their waists. They carried only swords on their hips, no shields, no spears. Not even a helmet. Annabeth had seen guards before, guards atop the Akropolis, decked out in heavy bronze armor and given a wide shield and pointy spear in order to ward off any intruders.

Her father stepped in, unarmored, wearing only his official _khiton_. It was too hot to wear any other clothes. Annabeth had only dressed in a _khiton_ as well, though she expected to be dressed more elegantly before she was to meet her new master.

"Anaïta Bethzatha, I hope a good night's rest has calmed your nerves. Did you sleep well?" Her father ignored her pointed glare to take account of the room Annabeth had more or less destroyed the night before. She had refused to put the bed back together, refused to clean the pillows off the floor. Only the scrolls were transferred back to their safe location underneath Annabeth's bed. The scrolls her father had dropped off lay untouched by the door.

"I didn't sleep," Annabeth replied, though her statement was about as obvious as proclaiming that the sky was, in fact, blue. Her teeth grit against each other as she watched her father. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, a smile straining to stretch properly across his face, continuing to pretend everything was alright.

"That's unfortunate. Usually, a good night's sleep calms my own nerves before a big meeting. Nothing like being well-rested." He was almost chipper. Annabeth's hands clenched, her fingers finding their now-familiar spot in her palm. The pain tried to replace the anger.

"Helen is waiting to dress you. She is very excited to help you reach your new status in life."

_I'm sure she is,_ Annabeth thought to herself. Not having spoken a word to her stepmother since the loom incident, Annabeth had thought a lot about her. Not too many years ago Helen had been in the same position as Annabeth. Forced to marry a man far older than she, forced to bear him children. Yet Helen was naïve, a young woman who believed what she was told about men and women. So, when forced to give up her young, childish freedom, Helen never thought twice. That's what separated Annabeth from the rest of the women in Athens. She knew better. Knew what they did not.

Even if she knew better, the two hired swords outside of her door convinced her to act against her best interests. She followed behind her father. Each time she lifted her foot Annabeth felt like they weighed twelve talents. The day that had dawned in Athens was bright and hot. Clouds gave her no cover from Apollo's arrows.

Her stepmother waited for her atop the house, underneath the pergola. Her father and the two guards escorted them to the top of the _oikos_. The two guards stuck with them, despite her father saying that they would only be used to keep her from running out of her room. Her father had considered that she may jump from the pavilion and run like hell. The jump would not kill her, but it would surely immobilize her. No person thinking logically could honestly believe that Annabeth would try to jump. Maybe he thought she would scale down the walls, like some sort of assassin. The mental image of her climbing down walls made her laugh. Annabeth was never allowed the opportunity to train in such things, unlike her half-brothers. She doubted she had the strength to sprint away from a fat merchant.

It would hurt. Jumping, that is. But she figured it might hurt less than what was about to come.

Light streamed in from all the open sides of the open gazebo. Only the ceiling kept out any light. The ivy that had grown up along the tent-poles, unnoticed, had overtaken the roof; green leaves made solid roof-tiles in sunlight. The rays were shredded as they tried to make their way through the thick canopy, resulting in a flickering and psychedelic array of light. Her stepmother, and the metal table she sat at, were bathed in this light.

Besides her stepmother, a large piece of fabric lay in a purple blob. An assortment of buttons sat in front of the dress and some pins too. Next to the buttons and pins, in a ceramic bowl, sat jewelry Annabeth had only ever seen her stepmother wear on big, state occasions. Suddenly, it all felt even more real to Annabeth. Bile rose up in her throat and threatened to spill out. She did not want this. No part of her wanted this. Even knowing that there was no way out, Annabeth still scanned for another exit.

"I will leave you two here," her father spoke. His voice was muted in Annabeth's ears.

Annabeth did not know who he was referring to - her and Helen or the two guards. It was only his footsteps that retreated down the stairs.

Her stepmother spoke once neither could hear the clunking way her father went down stairs. "Annabeth, come sit."

Confused, grey eyes watched the older woman. Annabeth could not remember the last time any of her family members called her the name she had chosen for herself. She did not think they had ever called her that.

"I thought purple would look good with your blonde hair. Do you agree? I had it made a bit lighter so that it would show off your skin tone more."

Taking only small steps towards her stepmother, Annabeth responded. "What are you doing?"

"Hmm?"

"You're being nice."

Helen placed both hands on the table and straightened her back. "And is that such a problem?"

"Well, yes. Usually, you're a bitch."

With curious eyes Annabeth watched her stepmother tighten her grip on the table and flare her nostrils.

"I'm trying to be supportive. Of course, if you wish to be go-it-alone Annabeth, I can have the guards restrain you and I can force this dress on you."

Not much liking the sound of that proposal, Annabeth begrudgingly took her seat across from Helen. The older woman kept a stern eye on her.

"You're crude. Headstrong. Indignant. You would've made a better boy."

Annabeth could not agree with those words more. "Unfortunate that the gods did not. Perhaps you would have fucked both Malkolkmemnon and me."

Her stepmother's eyes flashed murderously and for a moment, Annabeth thought she might strike her stepdaughter. Then her hazel eyes flickered to the guards, suddenly thinking better of it. Oh, Annabeth wished her stepmother had just hit her. It would have felt so good. Victory always tasted sweet.

"Do you know why I hate you?"

"Because I am better than you? Smarter than you? Prettier than you were even at my age? Because, despite everything that I have done, my father still tolerates me?"

"And I wonder why that is. Truly, I do. No, the reason is much simpler."

"Good. I was worried there. If it had been a complicated reason I'm not sure your brain could have handled it."

"You're a fool." Annabeth could not tell if Helen had ignored her comment or responded to it.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's why I hate you so much. You read your scrolls, you plot your schemes, you take pleasure in messing up my household. But in the end you are the dumbest woman in this city. Do you notice how good my life is? How easy it is? I get whatever I want from your father with a flash of my tits or making him cum with my mouth."

Annabeth winced at the mental image.

"But you, Annabeth, you fight to make your life harder. You fight against your father, who is handing you a gilded life on a silver plater. You want to read? Fuck your husband right and he won't care what you do. Men are creatures of lust, girl, and even the most noble of men who claim that their lusts are directed towards boys — they are as fools as you."

Men don't care what hole they penetrate, as long as they penetrate it. Their minds are consumed by this animalistic desire to fuck. Instead of using it, you fight back against your biggest strength."

Helen stood up and walked around Annabeth, stopping behind her. Her hands gripped her shoulders, causing Annabeth to tense up. Helen leaned down into her stepdaughter's ear.

"You believe your mind is your greatest asset here, don't you? That's why you're a fool, doomed to living a life of pain. Your body is your greatest asset. Use it before you lose it."

Helen stood back up. "Now, let's get you into this dress."

* * *

**THE COMPANION**

* * *

As a young girl, living in the streets of Korinth, Thaïs learned a few things quickly. Most of those things had to do with men, the rest had to do with how women were viewed by men. Her mother had been a _hetaira_, her father an unknown merchant, politician, and general. When she was really young, only a few years of age, she dreamed of her father riding in so that she and her mother could finally be a happy family.

It only took a few more years before Thaïs realized that that was a foolish dream. No doubt her father cared little for her or her mother, and there was no need for another man in her mother's life. Living as a _hetaira_ brought her mother a decent amount of wealth and a few constant male companions. Thaïs had gotten used to the constantly shuffling cast of men that frequented her mother. A few times she got to know them better, if they stayed for a few months; sometimes they stayed for one night, and she did not know them as well.

Her mother provided decently well for Thaïs, and living at the _porneion_ meant that they had to worry very little in the way of rent. Living at the brothel quickly attuned Thaïs to the real world. And in the real world, sex was not something hidden by one's parents, but a way of life. Sex put food on the table and clothes on her body. Sex gave them a roof over their heads and access to high society. Her mother worked for magistrates of all levels of the Korinthian government. She attended their symposiums and their lonely nights.

Still, for every excess that sex had bestowed upon Thaïs's life, the greatest gift it had given her were those lessons. Lessons which now served her exceptionally well in the world of high politic.

"Ubanlu, make sure the wine is aged properly. At least keep it five years old, Perseus likes it stronger.

"And Zakiti, what is the status of the _pornai_?"

"The _porneion_ said they'd be here by the end of the second hour before nightfall."

"So late?"

"Thaïs, my dear, Perseus doesn't wish for any more company than us. Don't swamp the poor boy. He's got enough on his plate as is, scare him with women and he'll bolt like a frightened dog."

Ptolemaios reclined behind a table filled with flatbreads and cheeses, olives and figs, nuts and fruits. He drank water from a large cup to fight off the brutal summer heat. Both of them were dressed in the lightest clothing they had. Slaves waved large hand-fans back and forth to beat away the dry, late-afternoon air. Thaïs felt the heat too, sweat dripping off of her forehead. She grabbed the bottom of her dress to use as a napkin; the action revealed herself entirely to her lover.

"Are you trying to distract me from my argument?"

The _hetaira _rolled her eyes, staring at the ceiling hoping for an answer, and dropped the dress again. "If you were so easily distractible we wouldn't be having an argument. I can spend the whole day around you nude, knowing that not once would your cock get even a little hard for me."

"Now, now dear, you know that's not true." Ptolemaios took a piece of cheese and a dried fig from the table in front of him, a move which earned himself a reproachful look.

"We have guests coming, you can wait for them." She swatted away his hand as he moved to grab a grape. "And I know it's true because it's happened before. Not once did you even _think_ about fucking me the last time I was nude all night." Her legs, tanned brilliantly from being out in the sun all the time, straddled Ptolemaios's lap. He turned over so that he could see all of her. His hands began to roam up her body, making her bite her lip in excitement.

"When was the last time that happened?"

"We were in Persepolis."

His hands halted on her hips. His eyes stared up at her disbelievingly. "Don't make a fool out of yourself."

"And how am I making a fool out of myself?"

"You were nude in Persepolis the whole night because we burnt the fucking city to the ground on _your_ whim."

Thaïs giggled and wiggled over the general. He looked up at her with the face of a man who reprimands the naughty child, even though the man knows that he had done the same thing as a child himself. And Ptolemaios had — together, they had burnt that palace to the ground.

"Tell me it wasn't a fun night, and I'll call you a liar."

"Running through burning hallways as a massive palace collapses above you is not my idea of fun, my dear."

Thaïs could feel Ptolemaios shift underneath her, his cock hardening to her gyrations. Through a bit lip, she smiled at him and savored the feeling of control she had. Ptolemaios may pretend to be a man far more focused on politics than pleasure, but he was a man nonetheless. And she could control any man she wanted to with a flash of her cleavage or a view of her thigh.

"Sir, I hate to interrupt, but Perseus is outside."

Ptolemaios broke eye contact with his lover to lazily gaze at the soldier.

"Let him in," the commander spoke, annoyance apparent in his voice. "So that I can tell him to fuck off."

The guard walked back to the door, chuckling. The relationship between Perseus and Ptolemaios was well known throughout the army, and mediators between the two found that it was okay to be amused by the two in front of superiors. Thaïs leaned back, keeping herself on Ptolemaios's lap but pausing her movements. Her hands gripped his thighs instead of his chest.

"Should I move? I don't wish to scare him," she joked.

Ptolemaios said nothing, continuing instead to trace his fingers over her thighs. The two stared at each other right up until Perseus walked in.

"Every time I come in here you two are about to fuck."

Thaïs laughed, sliding into her entertainer mode. Slowly she disengaged from Ptolemaios's lap and twisted herself upright to greet Perseus. "Do you not expect it by now? Or is it always a surprise?"

The handsome young man strode into the room accompanied by an easy attitude and his close companion, Grover. Grover, neither as good looking, as magnetic, nor as athletic as Perseus, was nevertheless the brains of the operation. Though Perseus was by no means incompetent, his view of the world was instinctual. Just this morning, the disposal of Meleagros proved as much.

"It gets me every time. So I suppose now I am to blame. Fool me thrice and all of that." Perseus smiled at Thaïs despite his words, and the two hugged. His body, harder than any man's body she had ever touched, was warm. Overly warm, for she could feel the sweat that caused his shirt to cling to his abdomen.

"You need a drink, cool off a bit. Were you in the sun all day?"

"No, that was my job." Thaïs turned to give Grover a polite smile, but internally she bit her cheek. Grover had always landed on her wrong side. Socially inept, awkward, Thaïs continued to wonder why Perseus brought him anywhere. She understood the two were friends, but beyond that there was no reason to bring Grover to social events like this one. Yes, ostensibly it was a strategy meeting, yet if anyone was discussing strategy an hour from now, it would be the most drunken strategy ever concocted.

"Cleaning up Perseus's mess?" She and Grover embraced lightly, an embrace she quickly pulled out of to avoid smelling his odd stable stench for too long. Thaïs glided towards the wine, looking for an out.

"Don't I always?"

"I resent that." Thaïs looked over her shoulder to watch Perseus clasp his hands down onto Ptolemaios's shoulders. She watched the two men talk in muted tones, about what was apparently unimportant to her.

Calling for wine, Thaïs found herself her own seat to the left of Ptolemaios. Grover seated himself directly across from Ptolemaios and Perseus reclined to his right. The summoned slaves dumped wine into their cups. Grover, endlessly uncouth, went for grapes before even Ptolemaios. She tried to catch Perseus's eye to give him a silent reprimand on behalf of his friend, but the young bodyguard was stuck staring into his cup.

"I heard what happened this morning," Ptolemaios began, his voice more somber than it had been in a few hours. Thaïs worried about his mental state with Alexandros gone. Yes, there had been maneuvering and posturing between the commanders before Alexandros's death, but there was always a man amongst boys to calm the frenzy. Now, there was no more rope holding the crazed bulls back. All that was left was male ego and endless armies to fuel conflict.

"It was upsetting," Perseus replied. "But it needed to happen."

"Many upsetting things are necessary. It is our job to execute those things. No matter our thoughts."

"It was our job, once."

"What has changed?"

"We lost our king."

"That does not mean that we are without a duty," Ptolemaios said. His eyes were trained on Perseus', the two men locked in their pedagogic dialogue. Thaïs was accustomed to their conversations, and accustomed to the outcome. "We still have things to protect. To serve. Have you so easily forgotten our queen? Her son?"

"I have not, I apologize," Perseus said

"You feel lost."

Perseus traced his thigh with slow fingers. Thaïs could see his mind working through the scrunch of his brow. "I do."

"What did Plato call the state? A ship sailing through troubled waters? My boy," Ptolemaios still called Perseus, a grown man, boy, something that would have annoyed Thaïs but Perseus seemed undisturbed by, "we are adrift now. The crew is running the ship. We are listing back and forth, port and starboard, and we are in desperate need of correction."

"You suggest something, my dear?"

Thaïs' hand dragged across her lover's chest, stopping at his navel. He was trim still for a man of his advanced age, but was not a sculpture like Perseus. It mattered little to her. She was not a young _hetaira_ like so many of the girls that tempted the boys in the army. There was no need to tempt them. She had what she wanted.

"Remind me again, who does Plato say should not run the ship of state?"

"You and your damn philosophers, Ptolemaios," Perseus grumbled. Thaïs watched his eyes roll.

"He told us to keep the crew from running the ship," Ptolemaios paid no heed to Perseus' aggravation. "You need to pay more attention to them, for they dictate any proper conversation. Know Sokrates or Plato or Aristotle, Protagoras or Anaxagoras or Pythagoras, and you can work any argument to your own ends."

"I'd rather not converse."

"Where you and I differ, and where you will find yourself foundering. Listen well my boy." Ptolemaios shifted himself more upright and Thaïs slid down his lap. Her eyes were transfixed on his face, the way it would harden in concentration whenever he discussed grand strategy. "What we sail is not a ship but a fleet. Alexandros was not a mere ship-captain but an admiral. _We_ are his ship-captains. We still are."

Ptolemaios paused to take a sip of his wine and to let the meaning of his words sink in. For his part, Perseus stared back at his mentor with a blank, perhaps slightly bored, expression. It was not that the boy was dull — far from it — but, well, the boy did not enjoy philosophy.

"And as captains of a ship still sailing, each of us must make sure that we do not sink the ships we sail. Furthermore, we must remember that we are a fleet without an —"

"By the gods, can you speak in plain Greek instead of barbarian for once?" Callused fingers dragged through messy black hair, pulling at the ends. Thaïs, with her head resting on Ptolemaios' chest, smirked. She felt his chest push upwards and then fall back down with a long sigh.

"We will soon be given dominion over a part of this vast empire. Focus on leading it to glory, not on leading the whole empire to glory."

Perseus chugged wine. Ptolemaios made a face. "Are we not," Perseus began as the _kylix_ fell back down to the table, "forgetting what you originally said, that we still have a duty to Alexandros' kingdom, and to his family?"

"The exact opposite, my boy. If you focus on the rest of this empire, you will steer your part of it astray. We can only improve what we can affect. Remember that."

"You make no sense, do you know this?" Ptolemaios chuckled at Perseus' childish reply.

"I will help him remember it, do not worry." Thaïs was as startled by Grover's words as her lover was. Both of them had forgotten about his presence at their meeting. He had been so silent. Thaïs curled her lips into an uncomfortable smile.

"I am sure you will," she forced out. "It is getting late, and we have dinner prepared. Let us eat."

"I have lost my appetite for all but wine today, my lady. I would be a rude guest and eat nothing." Perseus rose from the couch to a straight-backed seated position, whence he could finish his wine.

"Are you sure you don't wish to stay?" Thaïs asked over the cup of wine. Perseus simply shook his head.

"I would be an unnecessary burden." Thaïs saw through his words, and so did her lover. Giving her a pat on the side, Ptolemaios rose up.

"No need to force him. We will have food sent to their rooms."

"Well, I for one would not mind staying for dinner. I am positively starving." Thaïs winced outwardly at the possibility. Fortunately, Perseus clasped his hand around his advisor's shoulder.

"I wish to speak with you tonight, Grover. At length. We can have the food Ptolemaios and Thaïs provide there."

"I, well, I-I," Grover stuttered. One solid look from Perseus, though, and the soldier was convinced. He gave a mute nod and walked away to the door. Perseus turned to his old mentor. The two men embraced, a moment of intimacy that even Thaïs felt compelled to turn away from.

Separating after their long moment, Perseus gave her one last smile before following his friend out the door.

"My lady," one of the slaves said. "The _pornai _are here. What should I tell them?"

Thaïs looked back at Ptolemaios whose smile was predatory. "Tell them," she replied slowly. "That we would be delighted to have them."

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**A/N: Hi... So yeah, it's been longer than expected. I've barely budged this story, but finally Chapter III is done. This one was a doozie, the next few will be big too. As always, tell me what you think. Constructive criticism, Beta-reading offers, etc. Now, on to review responses. I usually dislike these in stories, but I think every once in a while a good review deserves a good response.**

**From: JC RH**

_I love these type of stories. They are so far in between because they are so hard to write and the number of fics that got completed are even fewer._

_Thing is though, that these types of stories take a lot of time to write. As a result the updates are so irregular. And the story is pretty complex with complex names and places so it's hard to keep track of. It's not your fault. I can imagine the work you have to put into writing this. I would love to read this in one go. Again, as a result though writers get discouraged and abonden their work. I seriously hope you complete this story because the people that follow the story will be heavily invested. _

_Nevertheless this is a great start. If I got the gist right, I love stories where Percy is not a complete baffoon like he is always portrayed in fanon and the types of stories where it's effectively Percy and Annabeth against the world. So far, it's an amazing start. And from what I remember you got the most of the historical stuff right. Making Percy the 'Demon of India' and the person who saved Alexander was a great touch. It's a nice tweak to one of the most importnant even in history. Loved it. Can't wait for Percy and Annabeth to unite so they can present a united a front. Infact I would have loved it even more if Annabeth was already with Percy. Doesn't really need all that stuff where they meet and all that. The story is interesting as it is. That's not really a con though. I'll just accept that they were together for some time and it wouldn't be hard to believe. _

_It'll be hard to keep track of the names and the plot so I might just come back to read the new updates two at a time or so, but I'll definitely be checking out this story. It's a Greek historical_ _polical thriller with two of my favorite character at the lead. I love those. _

_Tl:Dr. It's a great start and I seriously hope you will continue it and finish it someday. Just don't write this for the reviews course I don't think this is the type of stories you are doing it for the number of reviews._

**First of all, thank you so much for this incredible review! I know how rare stories like these are, and especially in the PJO universe. That's why I decided to write this in the first place. I wanted to write a story I wanted to read. **

**But you are right — these stories are incredibly hard to write because they are much closer to books than stories. There's not just story-telling, but symbolism and theme and plot and foreshadowing, which makes writing and releasing serially a burden. I plan to publish everything to Archive of Our Own with pictures and maps at the end of each book, after some serious edits and reviews. **

**As to whether or not Percy is a "complete baffoon"... you'll have to find out. He's not the character the fandom portrays him as, but he's not a perfect character cause that would be boring. And "Percy and Annabeth against the world" is not how I'd characterize what's going to happen. Trust me, I love a good Percabeth story (check out my other stories, subtle plug). But this is not a good Percabeth story. It's a Song of Ice and Fire-inspired work. This is about realism, not epic. It's the fusion of epics such as _the Iliad_, my love of ancient philosophy/literature/culture/history, and the gritty realism of A Song of Ice and Fire. That's why Percy and Annabeth aren't together originally. They weren't supposed to be together till later but I decided against that. I'm really interested in exploring "Percabeth" v. Percy v. Annabeth and how these characters interact with each other and without each other. **

**Finally, thank you for the encouragement. This story is always in my mind. I'm probably going to major in Classics, so I don't think this story is going away any time soon. As for reviews... well, they're encouraged and encouraging but not my only encouragement.**

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**I am removing the update "chapter", but here's the excerpt from that. It comes around Chapter X.**

"Not that it was much of a fight anyways. Your city fell as easily as you, Hypereides. At least your accomplice has made himself much more difficult to find." Perseus smirked down at the broken orator.

"You are a man without honor!" Hypereides spat back. A few Athenians had helped him sit up straight, supporting his back with their arms. Blood streaked down his hobbled legs. "You took this city through villainy and treachery!"

"And you rose up against your king. Treason, dare I say."

"Treason! Treason against a conqueror and a tyrant! How dare you accuse us of such things when you stand here worshipping a dead man! A dead man who thought himself an immortal god!"

"Watch your tongue, old man, else I cut it out and force you to look upon it with your own eyes." Perseus' tone had gone as tense as his hands, which reached to his waist. They unsheathed a longer than normal _kopis_, the likes of which she had never seen before. It was a well-crafted sword, she assumed, but nothing like his armor.

"Threaten me with all the armies you and your barbarian friends have arrayed in Xerxes' lands! I shall look you in the eyes and spit on your face even if you were to march across the Hellenespont like that tyrant!"

"Tyrant? What about our rule has been tyrannical?" Perseus turned now to address the gathered captives. They were the families of rebels, so Annabeth thought he was preaching to the wrong people. "Has Athens not recently enjoyed the greatest prosperity of her lifetime? Has she not been happy and well-fed, safe and secure? Have not your ideals been spread from Illyria to India, because of what Alexandros had done?"

"And at what cost? Alexandros gave us safety and wealth, aye, and in exchange, we gave him our freedom." Someone from the crowd bellowed loudly in defense of Hypereides. Annabeth was too stuck on Perseus to care about who had spoken. The Demon of India placed his fingers on the bridge of his nose, shook his head, and sighed.

"Freedom to do what exactly?" He gestured with his arms, making exasperated movements. "Slaughter innocents and impose your will on those weaker than yourselves? You are all so foolish as to believe that Athens was ever pure."

"And, what, you are pure? You, who brought hundreds of men instantly to Hades! How many women have you made widows, or children fatherless? You were raised by satyrs and bears, then thrown onto the teat of Olympias. You know nothing of purity or of virtue."

His face twitched, Annabeth could see clearly. He had made a move the moment Hypereides had mentioned widows, but one of the ten guards held him back. They whispered something in his ear. His sword arm relaxed.

"There are very few of us who do. Very few of us who are pure all the way through. But I am not here to argue. I am here to discuss your terms of surrender." He spun his sword around his fingers, before sheathing it once more. "Now, shall we begin?"

* * *

**Striving to provide Southern Hospitality the world over,**

**LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy)**


	4. IV

**Greek words to know:**

_agora_: the marketplace of Athens

_eirena_ _Alexandrois_: the peace of Alexander

_kleos_: eternal glory

_daimon_: a divine spirit

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**I hate to do this, but quick comment on timeline: up until now, Annabeth's sections were two weeks behind the Babylon sections. By the middle of Annabeth's section in this chapter, she ends up two weeks ahead of Babylon. The rest of the chapter takes place two weeks ahead of Babylon as well.**

* * *

"If you free yourself from the conventional reaction to a quantity like a billion years, you free yourself a bit from the boundaries of human time. And then in a way you do not live at all, but in another way you live forever." — John McPhee, _Basin and Range_

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**IV**

* * *

Annabeth gets married in Athens. Demosthenes rejoices in his exile. Olympias mourns, but Kynane does not.

* * *

**THE DAUGHTER OF ATΗENS**

* * *

As much as busy was the norm in Athens, there was another buzz layered on top of the usual business of the city. Additional soldiers marched through the streets. More boys trained in the fighting yards. More speakers spoke at the Pnyx to demand freedom. Athens had changed in recent weeks. It was a palpable change. The city felt exuberant. The city felt ecstatic.

Everyday, her father would come home in giddy form. War! he would exclaim. Freedom! Word had reached Athens that Alexandros was building a fleet at Rhodes for an invasion of Libya. The challenge to Athenian naval superiority was apparently the final drop in the bucket for those Athenians who were tired of being chained by Babylon and Pella.

But there was tension, too. For every two speakers demanding freedom, there was one demanding caution. More often than not, Hyperides would make his firebrand case for rebellion, and Phokion would follow him, pleading for caution and reason.

Tension spilled from the Pnyx into the streets. Parading hoplites would run into patrolling city watchmen. A few times those encounters had broken out into brawls, even once leading to a stampeding riot across the agora. The watchmen, less well-off than most hoplites, were not as willing to break the eirena Alexandrois. They had heard from their fathers, or had experienced for themselves, of the constant battling between city-states that Alexandros' conquest had put an end to. And many of the more well-off agreed — the peace should stay.

Yet their pleas for caution went unheralded by the fervor of the masses who clamored for rebellion. Young men, eager to prove themselves every bit as heroic as Akhilleus or Odysseus combined with bitter men who dreamt of greater things than gold. Empire. Strike Alexandros before his fleet could make it out of Rhodes, secure Athenian safety from the North, and recreate the Athenian dominance enjoyed by Sokrates and Aristophanes. Or so they dreamed

This was what Annabeth had heard from second-hand sources. She had yet to be allowed outside her home since her marriage was proposed. Her father worried that she would run off. The idea was not foreign to her. Thus, most of her knowledge of political matters had come from dinner table discussions, through listening in on symposion discussions, or through Helen, who Annabeth was learning was far more perceptive than she let on. Helen told Annabeth everything that her father refused to believe — the dissent, the discontent, the riots. Through the tidbits of information Annabeth forced out of her stepmother, she learned more than just what was going on in Athens.

It was one of those obnoxiously propagandist dinners that Annabeth found herself at now. Her family sat with her betrothed, a young officer in the army. The war shall be glorious! her father told Antiphalos, her betrothed. The ekklesia's march towards war was not, of course, without the people's backing, her father would proclaim. There was a general attitude in the city for war, she had heard her father say. And a perfect time for her marriage, wouldn't you agree, her father had asked her husband-to-be.

"Oh yes, very much sir," her fool of a betrothed would reply.

"And when the time comes, it should be you, my boy, leading the van. Leading Athens to freedom once more!"

During these dinners, Annabeth's responses had become cyclical, repetitive. Whenever some stupid comment was made — about her, the war, politics — she would roll her eyes, and Helen would give her a stern eye in response. Annabeth would sigh, put on a smile, and heft out what tits she had. Helen would smile ever so slightly in approval.

Both had caught Antiphalos staring at Annabeth's cleavage a few times, and at her step-mother's more bountiful pair, at some servant girls' as well. He was a man who loved tits, her stepmother observed.

"Most men will pretend to care little for your body," she had said late one night over the past two weeks. "They will pretend that they are truly in love with little boys and their soft bodies — but they want you so badly. Their cocks get hard just at seeing a passing pornai or a beautiful singer. Let them think it's bad for them, that they shouldn't be thinking about you like that."

"But why? I thought I wanted them to try and fuck me?"

Her stepmother laughed, the cruel edge still stuck in her voice. "No, you beautiful little fool. You want them to want you. Yearn for you. And desperately. And a man loves what he can't have, whether that be a girl, a virgin, or another man's wife."

Helen, Annabeth was figuring out, was more right than wrong. Not that she would tell her as much, but she was beginning to act on her step-mother's advice. Their conversation on the oikos had been so brutally honest that it broke some invisible barrier that had existed between the two. Their relationship was not fixed with a snap of her fingers, but it was noticeable that Annabeth tried now, with subtle movements, to push her chest out, or give a shy smile to her husband-to-be. Inside, however, she felt gross for even attempting such actions.

"I would be honored to lead Athens to freedom once more sir. And when your daughter and I are married, our two demes will be the most respected in Athens once again!"

Her father thrust his wine cup in the air. "Hear hear!" He downed a larger portion of the cup than would have been polite amongst other guests.

"You see, when Plato told us of his philosophos-basileus it was not Makedonians he spoke of! It was Athenians! Aristotle once knew that, and knew it well! But he lost his way, whored himself out to Philip, same as Phokion. They were men without conviction, I say! Men without honor. Perhaps now they will run to Athens again and beg forgiveness. It is time once again for the Athenians to rule Hellas!"

Her father paused his speech to drink some more wine, by now positively drunk. "And once you lead Athens to victory, Hyperides can say nothing to me. It will be us at the forefront of Athenian politics. I will be the new Perikles!"

Her fool of a betrothed raised his glass to meet her father's once again. "May Athena grant us the strength of mind and Ares the strength of spear in this fight."

"And may Zeus grant us his justice!"

Men were just oversized boys, always dreaming of the glorious war in which they would be immortalized as heroes. Her father was the worst of them, she had once thought. Antiphalos might beat him, she now thought, observing the dumb smile spreading across his face. The gleam of glory was in his grotesque eyes.

"For Athens and for kleos!"

Once again, Annabeth could not resist the temptation to roll her eyes. Once again, Helen responded with a pointed gaze.

**Π**

"What is this even for?" As soon as they had entered into their room, Annabeth tore off her dress before tearing into her stepmother. The anger that had stirred and steamed within her all night had finally boiled over. She stared down at her breasts, angry at their existence. She hated it. She hated how low she had had to degrade herself. "A little bit of freedom to fuck whom I want in a year or two? They don't care about my tits or my body. They're boys — they want glory in war. To wet their swords with Makedonian blood," she said the last part derisively.

"A little bit of freedom in general," her stepmother replied, taking the outburst with cool indifference. "What do you think they do after wetting their blades with blood? They wet their cocks. Boys love sex just as much as they love war. It just doesn't make for half as entertaining dinner conversation." Her stepmother paused again. "And don't say it wasn't working. Because it was."

Helen disrobed as well. Her body was toned perfection. Her stomach remained flat and her legs long. But it was her breasts that always demanded the most attention. Everything within her focused at the largeness of Helen's breasts. She wanted to look away as tiny seeds of doubt and self-loathing seeped into her conscious. Why were her breasts not as large as Helen's? Why were her areolas not as dark? Why were her nipples not as pronounced?

No. Stupid, stupid.

Internally, Annabeth slapped herself. There was no practical reason she'd need a chest that large. In fact, large tits would easily be a nuisance, getting in the way if she was ever able to fight.

No, not if — when she got to fight. She knew she would need to learn, one day.

Annabeth did not need large breasts to seduce a man. She did not need to seduce a man. She did not need Helen's help to gain her independence. What had it even gotten Helen? She yanked her eyes away from Helen's chest, but her stepmother had already caught her staring.

"Admiring the goods?"

"No," Annabeth snapped, feeling defensive. Helen's smirk irked her. Just because they were on speaking terms did not mean that they were on good terms.

"It's fine to look, Annabeth, many girls have done much, much more."

Hearing that, Annabeth spun back around to face Helen and blushed. "You-you what?" She sputtered.

"Come now, Annabeth. You've read Sappho, have you not?"

"I mean, I have, but…" The words got stuck in Annabeth's throat. Of course, she has had those thoughts about women before. It was as natural in girls as it was in boys, despite what the men would say. But having those thoughts about Helen? Weird, very weird.

"But?" Helen raised her eyebrow in the same way that would make men's pants grow tight and even Annabeth could not deny she felt her throat constrict. Slowly, Helen sauntered her way next to the younger girl. They were nearly the same height — her and Helen — with the latter being a little taller. Still, their breasts touched and Annabeth's breath hitched. This was the closest she had been with, well, anyone. The fact that it was her stepmother just made it… something more insane.

"That wasn't what I was thinking about," she managed to get out.

"Oh? And what were you thinking about?" Helen spun away with a wicked grin, before taking a seat on her bed. Her breasts jiggled as she spun. Her rear shifted, tempting, as she walked.

"How it doesn't matter if my tits are smaller than yours." The words came out half-forced, caught in her throat like a rabbit stuck in a hollowed log, squirming slowly out of the natural trap.

From her place on the bed, her hands behind her, supporting her, Helen raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "And why not?"

"Because I'm done seducing men." She slipped on a comfortable bandeau.

"After a night? Giving up so soon?"

Annabeth growled in response. She was not giving up. Annabeth did not give up.

"I don't need it."

"Don't need it? So you've solved your problem another way?"

"No. But I will. And seduction won't get me anything I want."

"It'll get you anything, any time, as long as men rule and their cocks still twitch when they see a beautiful woman."

"Only money and a little freedom. Even then, that freedom feels tainted. I don't want to be a glorified hetaira."

Helen had the tenacity to smile. "No offense taken."

Annabeth scowled at Helen's tone. Would she ever pin down her stepmother? One day, she's more or less torturing Annabeth. The next she's, what, flirting with her?

"Annabeth, dear," Helen sighed. "You're using me as your example."

"You're my only example."

"Not true. Do you remember Aspasia?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you know as well as I do that she wrote most of Perikles' speeches." Better than you, she thought, but wisely kept that comment quiet. "You think she received that opportunity just because she asked? No, she created her own opportunity by performing a few favors here —" Annabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She doubted Aspasia was performing those types of favors to Perikles, but Helen was allowed to think what she wanted, Annabeth supposed. "— and a few favors there. Seduction is our one key to power, Annabeth. If you don't use it, you lose out on all that power, which is all that you've ever wanted, no?"

"I don't want power—"

"You do. The power to read, the power to make your own decisions. Honestly I bet you want more power than that."

Annabeth could not respond. The idea of holding as much power as her father was not an unattractive notion.

"You say I'm your only example," Helen continued. "And it's true. But think about it, I'm allowed to do one of the most taboo things in Athenian culture. Do you think there's nothing I couldn't do if I wanted to do it? After infidelity, what's a little information gathering? All of the information you've learned about Athens' current state, where do you think it came from? All it took was giving your father a little head here and there —"

"I did not need to know that."

"— and bam! Anything I want is within my fingertips. I just don't want the things you want. I've gotten you some of those things, if only because I pity you. Just know that if I wanted to look into Athens' finances, I could. If I wanted to know about troop movements, I could too. I just don't want to know. Innocence is bliss and all that shit."

Helen slithered her way to Annabeth's side. The younger girl nearly shivered at the contact their shoulders made.

"Do you see what I mean?"

Of course she did, she wasn't stupid. Still… It sounded wrong. Too good to be true, yet too repulsive to stomach. Why did it have to be this way? Why was she forced to sell her body in order to get the positions men were able to get with half the brains she had? The very idea of it was belittling. Was she that desperate to do this? Did Antiphalos even have enough power to offer her? He could quite possibly lead Athens' army against Antipatros and Alexandros. From there he would become either a hero or a corpse. She smiled a little bit. The latter option was more appealing than the former, but the former had its own perks. Power… Helen was right.

Annabeth turned to her stepmother, her smile growing wider. Was she willing? She still didn't know. But what she did know was that she wanted that power, that control Antiphalos had potential to offer.

"So if you asked, you could get me into Athens' books?"

Helen laughed, and Annabeth felt something with her stepmother for the first time since her father married her. "Yes, my dear, I think I could."

**Π**

The frigid water rushed over her body. Streams of cold filtered through her hair and down her sides. Annabeth shivered. It had been two weeks since her chat with Helen in their room; two weeks of anxiety, of waiting, of disgustingly flirtatious behavior with her soon-to-be husband, which were all to be washed away by the bath. Supposedly.

The water had been carried from Hera's temple to her house before Annabeth had even woken up. It remained cold through the heat of Athenian summer and the long walk from Hera's temple to her father's house. It was meant to purify her of, well what exactly she had no clue.

"Not just purification," Helen had added. "Fertility too."

"Yes," the two temple workers who had lugged the loutrophoros to her house replied. "Eileithyia who sits besides the Moirai blessed this water. Hera daughter of Kronos blessed this water as well."

Annabeth could not contain her discomfort with the situation. Not only were the two staring at her naked form, they were heaving blessing upon blessing for a marriage she did not want throughout the ordeal. "They wish you many happy years of marriage," the two girls continued in creepy unison, "and many beautiful young boys to serve Athens —"

"Thank you, priestesses—"

"Oh we are not —"

"But your duty has been performed," Helen continued, rubbing Annabeth's shoulders softly. Annabeth was thankful for Helen's interruption. "Go back to your temple, tell your mistress we are thankful for the gift, and wish to see them soon."

The two maidens bowed their heads and scurried off.

"I hate the Heraion."

Annabeth looked up at her stepmother in confusion. She had yet to hear her speak out against any god.

"Oh don't be too shocked, child. Do you think the goddess of marriage looks down kindly upon me?"

Annabeth blushed, but reset her face with an understanding shake of her head. "I suppose not."

The two fell into a comfortable silence as Helen massaged soap into Annabeth's back. Annabeth sighed as her body slowly relaxed.

"Are you ready?"

No. "Yes."

"Good." Helen ran her hands along Annabeth's sides, testing her curves. "You will need to be prepared."

"I thought you said it was easy."

"It was." Annabeth considered her stepmother's stiff words and took a deep breath of determination.

"Does it feel good?"

"After the first time. And that's only if you let it be." Helen moved her hands upward, caressing her shoulders and massaged her head, working the water and cleansing oils into her hair. "Which you won't."

"I might."

"You won't."

Annabeth sighed and leaned into Helen's hands. They were working wonders on her scalp but doing little for her nerves.

"Truthfully, I didn't enjoy my first time." Helen finally said. Annabeth had expected as such; she'd learned long ago from gossip that one's first time always hurt. But somehow, Helen's confession still sent a chill through Annabeth.

"What changed?"

"The pain goes away immediately."

"Immediately?"

"Well, by the next round."

"Oh."

"And I learned more."

"More about sex?"

"Yes, through practice, and through talking with other women."

Annabeth knew Helen wanted her to ask for her help. She could hear the hope in her voice. But Annabeth was stronger willed than that. She could ask for aid, yes, but Annabeth was sure she could figure it out on her own. Sex was not that big of a monster. It was nothing compared to the endless nights she had spent miserable, begging the gods for a way out. So, she said nothing, and Helen continued to massaged her scalp.

"I could offer tips to make it better."

"I will figure it out."

This time, it was Helen who stilled to silence.

"...You won't make friends like this."

"I don't need friends."

"No. You've never had them. There is a difference."

"I've had friends!"

"None of which were at yesterday's proaulia." Helen tsked her, before reconsidering. "Or perhaps all of them were."

"I said I have had friends. Not that I do now. I have had friends, realized that I didn't need them, and moved on."

Helen did not reply as she helped Annabeth into her dress.

"You will need friends now." Helen finally responded once Annabeth's dress was secured to her young frame. "You will be isolated, and not by choice. All those times your father got upset with you? They will still happen but instead your husband will take you rough, as is his prerogative."

"It's not —" Annabeth paused her speech. As much as she did not want to admit it, Annabeth knew it was true. Not only that it was her husband's right by law to take her how he wished, but also that she was soon to lose everything she had ever known. Not that what she had known was some great thing, but all she had known was comforting in that she knew it. It was familiar. Her punishments were familiar, her disputes were familiar. Antiphalos had seemed remarkably docile, yes, but she did not know him as well as she knew her father.

"It is. Be prepared. It will be your life from now on. And if you isolate yourself even more? To whom will you turn on those nights when you cannot take it anymore? You will not have me there to cool your husband's head. You will not have anyone. Do you really want a life of lonesome suffering?"

Annabeth did not answer.

But the question stayed with her much after Helen had left to attend to her own duties. Her day, which should have been the most memorable of her life, passed by in a dull haze. The endless marriage rituals combined into one, long, immemorable day. She moved through the streets of Athens with her stepmother's words ringing around her head like never-ending bells. She greeted her groom with little emotion, her mind too preoccupied on answering that question. Pain or her pride; was there a choice to be made here?

She offered a lamb to Hera, praying for protection. She offered gold to Athena, praying for guidance that could lead her to a resolution to her dilemma.

For years, Annabeth's life had been a miserable monotony. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, all trapped inside her father's house. The only changing aspect of her day was when she would get in trouble. Even then there were only a few times of the day that would really be — in between meals. And then she would hide in her room while Helen went out, rereading the same few scrolls if she could. Annabeth's life was tiresome and terribly dull, but at least it was known.

Now, marching down the streets of Athens, beside her new husband, Annabeth realized how little she knew about the world. It had been so long since she had left her home and the world was much larger than it had appeared when she was smaller.

The streets were overflowing with people going about their day. The homes were not as big as she remembered them being, but there seemed to be more of them and closer together than they were before. The agora was an ocean of shouts, chitons, and aromas. The air was thick with people and their close proximity to her made the mid-summer's heat even hotter. Her dress started to stick to her as she sweated more. Like a flock of sheep when the approaching wolves close in, Annabeth felt herself panicking. This was new. Too new. Too much. Her mind had been sheltered and now like Zeus birthing Athena, it was bursting open.

Desperately, she turned around to try and glimpse at Helen. She found Helen walking alongside her father. Helen's white dress was sticking to her dark skin too, but Helen did not seem to mind that the sweat was showcasing herself to any lucky onlookers. Her father was too enraptured with Helen's exhibitionist nipples to notice Annabeth's gaze, but Helen was more perceptive than her father. She understood Annabeth's panic even from behind the girl's veil.

Helen simply gave Annabeth a pitying smile.

The young bride turned back around, her panic digging in.

"Athens is beautiful, isn't it?"

The question came from Antiphalos, who winked at her with an expression she'd never seen from him. It reminded her of the expression her father would use when talking to her half-brothers. Despite herself, she managed an answer.

"Y-yes," came Annabeth's meek reply to her husband.

"I love to walk around the Agora and just observe people."

She took a second to look at the crowds, unsure of what to say. She had gotten used to people who spoke without expecting a response. "Do they not notice?" She asked after he did not say anything for an uncomfortable amount of time.

He laughed, a laugh different than the deep laugh he exhibited with her father. This one was throatier and higher-pitched. His true laugh, Annabeth assumed. "No, most of them are too self-absorbed to notice someone staring at them."

"What do you get from it?"

"Nothing, I guess. I never know if I'm right, so I don't think I'm getting better at reading people. But maybe I am? I don't know. It's fun. No need to get anything from it."

For a moment there, Annabeth had thought her betrothed was not half the fool he appeared to be. Unfortunately, he was even more so. He had all this freedom to go and do whatever he wanted — train, read, learn — and he people watched. He sat down at the agora, and watched people for hours. To what end? Annabeth looked up at him again. He was smiling broadly at the people in the streets that were congratulating him on the marriage. Every once in awhile he would stare up at the sky and his smile would broaden.

"What in the sky has you so happy?"

"Well, it's just… it's a beautiful sky, isn't it?"

"I suppose." The sky was fair today, the blue expanse dotted with a few clouds to hand them the occasional shade. But the sun was shining too brightly and her dress was feeling the consequences. "But why does it have you smiling?"

"I'm just happy to be alive. I thank the gods every day for giving me life. Don't you?"

Oh, Zeus, son of Kronos, strike me down now, Annabeth thought.

"Oh yes. Everyday." Apparently he was not as good at detecting sarcasm as he was at reading people.

**Π**

They did not speak much after that. Annabeth did not really feel like initiating another conversation which would lead to her wishing for Hades to kidnap her. Her new husband kept similar silence, albeit, for a different reason. She couldn't understand how the simple-minded fool could be so enraptured by the blank sky and toasting crowds.

The long walk back from the agora had proven she was even more out of her element than she first realized. Her fear was driving her crazy, especially as the shock of the day's events began to wear off. She was married now. A woman, no longer a girl. Her husband… undying gods her husband. Just thinking of the phrase sent a shiver down her spine. She had desperately put off thinking about him the past two weeks. Once she did, it was too late. The terrifying reality of her new life gave her little chance to think of him as being anything more than an obstacle to her goal.

The long walk made other things apparent to her as well. The marriage procession from the temple to her home was longer on the way back, even though the route was the same. The long walk around Athens was more exercise than Annabeth had ever had, and it started showing. Her legs were wobbling, her feet crying in agony. And under the intense sun, she sweated more, her breaths becoming evermore ragged. She desperately desired water.

That, more than anything else about the day, angered her. For so long she had dreamed of being another Hippolyta or Atalanta. Instead, she was as weak as a lamb and just as sacrificial. Her arms were toothpicks compared to her husbands, her legs twigs. She had no endurance and no strength. Her body was not a hero's body. The realization brought tears to her eyes. By the time they had arrived back at her father's house, she was ready to collapse.

When she was finally parted from her husband — her husband! — to sit at a table amongst the other women at the marriage feast, Helen turned to the newlywed. "Look at you! You managed well."

"I…"

Helen ran her hand up and down Annabeth's back. Instantly, Annabeth felt herself relaxing. She let out long and shaky breaths, slowly recovering from the most demanding day of her life. "Why were we not born men?"

"Ask the gods, my dear."

Annabeth wanted to curl up and cry for hours alone. But she knew that was an impossibility.

"Come, drink some wine and eat a little bit."

"I'm going to vomit up anything I eat."

"Then wine and water."

Annabeth gave Helen a demure nod.

Annabeth gazed at her husband, laughing again in his fake laugh, drinking up a storm with his friends.

"He seems… not bad?" Helen suggested.

"He spends his days people watching," Annabeth replied as if people-watching was akin to serial murder.

"Annabeth…"

"What?"

"That's a good sign."

"How? It's…"

"It's..?"

"Well, it's pathetic and useless."

"Wouldn't you rather have someone pathetic and useless than overbearing and aggressive?"

"But I thought I wanted someone who could get me things?"

"That doesn't mean ambitious or even strong. His position is from his deme, not his personal ambition. Though the way he acts around your father, I would not doubt his ambition."

"So you think he has a shot at being important?"

"If enough people in his family stand up for him. And remember, your father is going to make him the head of the army against Alexandros."

Annabeth let silence still between them. "So it's true, then? War is upon us?"

"From what I've heard around the town and from your father, it's closer than it is afar."

"Will I go with him, if that is the case?"

"If your father allows it."

"Will he?"

"I don't know, child. Now, push those thoughts out of your head and enjoy the wine. It's from Krete."

With aching feet and a sweaty dress, she was too tired to argue much further. So Annabeth followed Helen's example, sipping her wine and nibbling at her lamb. It was good lamb, but Annabeth's stomach was not strong enough for meat now. Instead, she ate a bite or two of couscous. Her eyes rarely left her new husband throughout the night. He caught her gaze a few times and gave her a smile. At first, Annabeth did not return them. Helen soon corrected that.

"Smile back at him," she instructed.

"Why?"

Helen sighed and took a sip of wine. "Must you always question every bit of advice I give?"

"I just want to know why I should smile."

"So he likes you. It's easier if he likes you."

"Well, I don't like him."

"Anaïta Bethzatha, fucking smile at him or else."

Annabeth grumbled. However, the next time Antiphalos caught her eye, she gave him a shy smile.

"Good job."

The praise made her glow a bit. Judging from Helen's smirk, it was a glow that did not go unnoticed.

The feast progressed, without anything interesting, through multiple jars of wine. No one spoke of war for the first time in weeks. Perhaps everyone was war-weary already. She exchanged a few, painful, flirtatious eye-exchanges with her husband. He even winked at her at one point. Annabeth had giggled in response. At the very least she was learning how to act.

The night was nearing its end when the boring monotony of it was interrupted by a servant, one of the doormen, stumbling into the dining room.

"What is the meaning —" her father began, but he was cut off.

"A messenger, sir, at the gates. I… this news is of utmost importance. And urgent. Important and urgent, yes."

The messenger looked winded, but the sprint from the front gate the dining room was not that far. Maybe he was as out of shape as her. But it was bigger than that, she knew. The whole room fell silent, waiting for her father's verdict.

Annabeth looked from her father and servant to the direction of the gates. She looked back at her father.

"Well? Let them in. If he claims it is so urgent as to demand entrance into an officer of Athens' house, he will be allowed entry."

Whispers broke out around the room as everyone asked each other, in vain, what they thought the message was. To break them out of their futile conversations, a disheveled, sweaty man of lean stature burst through the noise of the night. "Pherekrates, sir, I have news from the East!"

Her father arched an eyebrow and looked to reply, but the messenger beat him to it with a heave.

"Alexandros III is dead!"

* * *

**THE ORATOR**

* * *

...but if they attempt to continue malicious, I appeal to you all to rally to my aid and not allow the enmity of these men to prevail over the gratitude due to me from you. Farewell.

Demosthenes sighed, placing down his ink pen. The scroll in front of him was far longer than the last one he had sent to Athens. Not a particularly bad thing, but he had rambled on for a while. Writing a speech was not as easy as giving one. In the midst of a speech, with the people clamoring for this thing or that, with the people behind him, roaring in approval, Demosthenes felt at home. Most of his speeches were barely planned.

Writing these letters was not the same. How could he know what the audience would think ahead of time, or what the reader of the letters would omit. He had learned long ago that crowds were such fickle things, as susceptible to the tides as an unmoored boat. Demosthenes scowled. Damn Hypereides. He had taught the younger orator too well. Demosthenes could not bring himself to hate the man because he knew he would have done the same if he were in Hypereides' position. But he came close. Really close.

He tried breathing again and said a quiet prayer to Athena for guidance. "Slave!" He called out, "come get this out to Athens, quickly now."

With a sleek gaze, Demosthenes watched the sway of the slave's rear as she hurried to his side.

"Yes, sir." The scroll was picked up with ginger hands, so as to prevent the ink from staining.

With his hands now free, he grabbed her dress and laughed with absolute abandon. The stress that had built up writing his plea left with the cheery laughter. He gazed upon the greatest scroll to ever be created, pinned in front of his desk. He re-read it while palming the slave's ass. It still did not seem real, but the source was reliable. Oh, how great the gods could be! After so long!

"Dead!" Demosthenes could not control his laughter, his exuberance. "Alexandros, the half-God — DEAD! By wine! Oh, Dionysos…"

How long had he dreamed of this new freedom? The informant had told him that not only was Alexandros dead, but that there were no heirs to take up his throne, that his army, mutinying in India already, would not be held together much longer. The trusted companions of Alexandros were squabbling as well, concerned over petty things such as who ruled what insignificant portion of Asia of Africa. The time was perfect for rebellion.

Oh, how he would erect a statue in Athens for whichever man brought about this misfortune on the once-King. Even if he was but a lowly cupbearer he would enjoy the greatest honors Athens had to bestow! For this great man had given Demosthenes the chance to once more create a free and prosperous Athens! An empire it would be anew, throwing off the yoke of the barbarian Makedonians and their Persian-loving ways.

He smiled to the heavens once more, and pulled the well-bottomed slave closer. "Bring me some wine and let us enjoy this momentous day!"

"Yes sir... right away." She kept her head bowed and her tone was insufficiently happy. That would not do. Demosthenes' hand went for her plump rear, happily taking in the soft flesh. Even his old body could still enjoy these pleasures. Aphrodite had not robbed him of that skill.

"Are you not happy? Alexandros, the great slaver, the oh-so-great tyrant, is dead! By a glass of wine! Of all things! Oh, how the gods are good. Bring me a glass of wine so I can toast Dionysos properly."

"It is a glorious day for Athens," she said monotonously. Demosthenes chose to ignore the fact that she was repeating his words back to her. It was expected, he doubted she had anything intelligent to say about the matter anyways. "Freedom. Liberty."

"Yes, yes, now wine."

The slave nodded demurely. She reached over to the jug of wine that sat just out of his own reached. His hand slipped around into her thigh. She poured him a cup, then cut it with water. She remained silent the whole time, head bowed.

Demosthenes' fingers rushed to enter her dry core. He turned to face her, accidentally bumping the cup he had just demanded be refilled. Wine spilled down his tunic, staining it red, but he cared little. His cock was hard, whether from the wine, girl, or the news he did not know.

* * *

**THE MATRIARCH**

* * *

The guards were dismissed aeons ago. No one had stood near her for months. She had been crying for years — millennia, even. Time had stopped working properly. How else could she describe this deep injury, so recently delivered, if not in terms of the gods themselves would have used; her misery was as eternal as Zeus. For was she not a goddess now? A goddess of misery and of despair, she could reside on Mount Olympos too, if she wanted. Olympias would haunt those marble hallways, singing her songs and weaving her tapestries of death and misery. Her tears would flow next to the Styx in the undergloom of Hades and her pain would be worse than Herakles'! She could be just as treacherous and as cruel as the gods above, they would see! How dare they take her son from her, her most prized possession. They took him away without even the promise of an heir. Curse them to Hades!

"Damn you, Zeus! Damn you, Hera! Damn you, Ares! And you too Athena! Damn you Apollo! Damn all the gods! Damn you all for bringing this misery out upon my house!"

Her fingernails dragged across her tanned forearms. It hurt. Good. They dug into her skin, warm blood coated her nails. She roared like the lioness who had lost her cub. Her nails ran up, up her arms. They made a furious journey to her elbows, then dug back down. She wailed more.

She had wailed for days on end. She had cried for days on end. She had bled for days on end. She had wailed until her voice had given out, and cried until her eyes had dried up and bled till she had no more blood to shed.

Her tears had betrayed her. They had ran out too soon, and so she cried dry tears. Her boy, her baby boy, gone! How long had it been since she had held him too? Too long.

Oh, he would be so beautiful now. Ageless, graceful, immortal.

Immortal! He had claimed it in one of his letters to her. She, the fool, had believed him. How could her son, the light of the world, the gods' Chosen, truly die? His kléos would live forever, yes, but his body would not. His soul had been stolen by Hades, that greedy lord of the undergloom. His kingdom was so vast already, why did he need her son?

Someone might have brought in wine at some point. Someone might have brought her food. They may have even fed her, or bathed her. They might have carefully placed her in bed with her babies. Her children may have slitherer around her, may have coiled around her and comforted her as she wept. Or maybe they had left like all the others, not willing to deal with her pain. She did not remember. The grief was too much. It was all she knew for certain.

Π

For two days, she was consumed by that grief. Thanatos came to her, the same as he had come to her son. He got close, too. The god of the dead nearly took her to see her boy one more time. But she was not so lucky. The world of the wretched living still demanded her. And thus, two days removed from the most horrid day of her life, the Queen found herself outside — sitting on her balcony, fuming. The heat of midday in a Greek summer, kept at bay only by a cup of wine, was not the only reason for her heated temperament. No, it was the damn noise.

The markets, slowly growing with the city into that worthy of an empire, had been closed for mourning since the news arrived. The streets were mostly barren. No singers or Thespians gave their voice to the sky.

All of that was gone, replaced by the relentless, overwhelming, unending sound of marching. Constant marching.

Antipatros drilled his troops all day, and then the city guard all night. Their shoes fell, synchronized with one another, in a mind-numbing rhythm. Left, right, left, right, left, right. On and on they marched, twelve-thousand pairs of shoes hitting the ground with that synchronized 'thump'.

She did not hate the fury that rose within her at the relentless marching. It was something to feel as opposed to the mind-numbing misery she had endured so much of recently. Still, she wanted silence. It was not that big of an ask, compared to what she could ask for. What did Antipatros think she had shut down the markets for, anyways?

Antipatros, the bane of her existence, a daimon sent by the gods to torment her, she was sure. Olympias was furious with him. Not only was this noise sending her into fits, but Antipatros had lied to her. Her! The Queen of Makedonia! The Queen Mother of an Empire! Whomever he thought he was, he was obviously not. No one defied her. Not even her son. Especially not her son. And especially not some over-jumped soldier. He doubted her, Olympias felt that. But that was his mistake. She was not out of this fight yet. She still had skin in the game. Her skin, her son's legacy, her family's legacy. Olympias refused to be outdone by an old man with no vision and a brat of a son. He could not even raise a proper son, so how did he expect to outwit her, whose child was the greatest of men!

"Wine!" She commanded. She needed to stop thinking so much. Damn the gods for taking her son and leaving her in this position!

A young slave hurried in to pour water and wine into her cup. "Bless you, Dionysos," she mumbled, praising the one god who had not deserted her, as she raised the wine glass to her lips.

"And bring me Antipatros!" She added. "I want his head!"

"His head, my Queen?!" Her dumb steward cowered a bit, in hopes he had heard her wrong.

"Yes, his head. Detached or attached I don't care. Bring it to me!"

"Sh—should I command his presence?"

"No, just ask. He will come."

"And… about his head."

"Oh, leave it on him." The Queen smiled as a little wine trickled down her neck. "For now."

The steward trembled, but nodded. The Queen waited. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go get him."

"O-of course, my Queen. A-at once, my Queen!" He scurried off, tail between his legs, the Queen's laughter chasing him.

"Bring me his head," she muttered distastefully. Her eyes looked over her loyal guards, scattered about the balcony. "You would bring me his head, yes?"

They said nothing. She did not mind, she was used to their reticence. Their presence alone, solid as marble, gave her comfort. Olympias was certain that they would do anything she asked of them. They would bring her Antipatros' head.

The same young slave girl refilled her wine, smart enough to do it without being asked. "Smart girl," the Queen praised. The slave girl blushed. "Bring me Apollo."

The little girl paused for a moment but nodded quickly enough.

"Now he will give me Antipatros' head!" The Queen cackled.

It took a moment after the slave girl disappeared into her bedchambers. The Queen sipped her wine. Then she heard a hiss. Her head turned to find the large snake, taken from Aegyptos, slithering towards her. His coat was a gorgeous copper and iron mixture. His scales were harder than leather yet felt as smooth as the finest silks.

She reached down to pet him, and he let her. It was a sign from the gods. Most others who tried approaching him so closely perished. Truth be told, the Queen did not know whether or not the girl she had sent to fetch him still lived. Olympias hoped that she had. She had done such a good job pouring her wine.

Apollo coiled himself around her legs, silently waiting for some type of reward. Olympias sighed. "Meat!"

"Behind you, Mistress." Olympias turned quickly, finding the slave girl standing behind her with a bowl of diced meat and a fearful expression across her face.

"Give it to him," the Queen commanded. The slave girl did nothing. "Are you deaf?"

"I do not know how, my Queen."

"Put it in your mouth and present it to him," the Queen said without a hint of humor. The way the girl's eyes widened made it worth it. The pretty little thing stared down at the bowl in her hands in horror, then back up at the Queen with pleading eyes.

"M-my…" She was so pathetic that she could not even bring the words out of her throat. The Queen rolled her eyes. Maybe all she was good for was pouring wine.

"Oh, I should have had one of you do this," she told her guards. They did not reply but the girl searched hopelessly for whomever the Queen was talking to. That was good. They blended in well. "I was joking, girl." Her eyes rolled as the girl's posture lightened. "Throw it towards him. He likes to pounce."

The young girl with ink-black hair nodded in relief at the far more reasonable request. She chucked a piece of meat in the general vicinity of the snake. Apollo's head opened up, flattening in the beautiful way of a predator. He was showing the meat who was boss. His head reared upwards, his tongue flickered outwards, and his body slinked forwards.

He lunged at his prey. Once. Twice. Thrice. The meat was gone. He looked around the room. Olympias clapped. "Congratulations boy. You killed a dead deer."

The snake took no offense at the jest.

"Feed him more."

The young slave girl obeyed. She flung meat across the room for the snake to attack. Olympias reverted back to staring at the open city. Left, right. Left, right. Left, right. The goddamn marchers. She should have every last one of them slaughtered for annoying their Queen!

"Mistress… he's, uh…"

"Coming at you?"

"Yes…" The young girl sounded scared out of her mind. Olympias chuckled.

"Leave. Before he figures out he can kill live meat too." The queen tilted her head. "Do not run. It'll just ignite his instincts."

The pair of dainty feet scurrying from the balcony broke up the monotony of the infantry marches.

"Apollo…" the snake curled up around her legs once more. "You cannot eat the serving girls. Otherwise, mommy won't have any more wine. And you cannot do that to mommy, dearest." She stroked his soft head, narrowed after his display of power. He gave no response. She sighed and took a sip of wine.

"My Queen."

Her lips hardened against the cool silver cup. The wine paused at her lips.

She hated his voice, hated it even more so as he aged. Gravely, deep, pompous. The Queen had no need to turn to know that his large presence stood ramrod straight, his pride the stick up his ass keeping him upright. Yes, she knew he was at the zenith of his power but that did not mean he deserved to act like this in her presence. He had always been bad but now it was only worse. With her son stolen from her, the old man was the most respected man in the empire now. Perseus was a close second, perhaps. Or maybe Krateros. Regardless, it was Antipatros on top. It was Antipatros who had stood next to Philip as he conquered all of Hellas. It was Antipatros who stood next to Alexandros as he conquered all of Persia. And right now it was Antipatros who stood behind of her, pissing her off.

"Antipatros," she began with little to no veil of pleasure guarding her words. "Sit."

"I dare not sit, my Queen. I am so old I may never get up."

"But not so old as to conduct constant marches through my streets? I am sick of the damn noise. Day and night! Without end, their feet run over my mind. Is my son's death not enough of a punishment for me? Must I now be subjected to this terror?"

He had positioned himself in front of her now. His hair was once a dull brown but now succumbed to the same grey that consumed those near death. He had retained his overwhelming build, but it was gaunt now, not enough skin stretched over too much bone. His eyes were as tired as hers. Too many battles danced across his vision as he tried to sleep, she assumed.

"They march to be prepared. They march so that the glory of Makedonia is ensured for future generations."

"Yes, yes of course." She sipped some wine and deliberately avoided his gaze. "But all day and all night?"

"Should they not be ready for anything?"

She huffed in exasperation. "I've heard of rumblings from the south. Do we fear Athens?"

"Your son had many enemies who will rejoice in hearing of his demise."

"Athens."

"Irrelevant. No, I fear those across the Hellespont."

Olympias looked him over and snorted. "Old age has muddled your mind."

"Athens is not a concern. They have never been a concern. No, I truly concern myself with those like Perdikkas and Antigonos."

"Loyal servants of my son! Have you lost your mind!" Apollo hissed in agitation, following the mood of his mother. Antipatros looked down and visibly stiffened. What fool would forget about her snakes!

"Loyal servants of your son, yes. But of his wife or his son?" Or you?

It was Olympias' turn to stiffen. "I did not realize I was a grandmother."

"The rest of the report that you received, did you not read it?"

"I can't say I did."

"Rhoxana. She is pregnant, might have given birth by this point."

Olympias smiled at the news. She had begged her son to give her grandchildren, but he had so far been inept. She wondered what the little boy would look like. She hoped he favored his father. Persian had never been a good look, she believed. Her son apparently thought otherwise, but there was no doubt that the girl he had married was a great beauty. After all, so was her son.

"Well, that is good news. But I still do not believe that the Cyclops or even the Silver General would raise their banners against my son!"

Antipatros shook his head gravely. "They would for Arrhidaios."

Olympias scowled. Damn that bastard boy and his wench of a mother. If she had not been so much a fool she would have killed both of them the moment the half-wit was born. Instead, she had relied on blasted poison to do its job. Oh, how she regretted that decision so.

But would anyone really follow him though? She may have failed to kill him, but she had killed his mind. The boy was nothing more than a shell, a body. No one would bother rallying to a brain dead bastard...

People rally to anything, her son had written to her as his armies tracked down Bessus. The Persian had been more or less nothing before he killed his King and named himself King. She supposed that was proof enough. Still… Arrhidaios was less than nothing. He had no mind, no ambition. He was just a shell.

"How dare they!"

"They will use him, no doubt about it, for their own means. A figurehead, if you will."

Olympias drank more wine, tapping her finger against the cup. Her mind spun, racing to envision how her son's generals' twisted ambitions could tear apart everything they've built so far. "So you march into Asia, put an end to any madness like declaring for Arrhidaios and then what?"

"Ensure your grandson's safety as regent."

"Oh? On whose authority."

"Your son's."

"My son? When?" And why had she not been informed of such a request! It had been at least two days. The Empire should run through her now. And Antipatros would not have been her first choice as regent. Someone more controllable, someone younger. Ptolemy, or Perseus. Both would do what she asked. Or maybe one of the younger somatophylakes.

"In the letter reporting his death, they added his call for me to serve as Regent for his unborn son until he is capable of rule."

That explains it. The damn messenger had apparently not deemed her sane enough to read the rest of the letter. She would kill that boy if she ever found him again.

But that matter could wait. The brute that now stood in front of her was the prerogative.

"When do you leave, then?"

Her eyes cast themselves onto the city below. The marching drills were as bad as ever. Damn, Antipatros. She hoped he left sooner rather than later.

"When our troops are ready."

"Which will be…?"

"Soon."

"Good. Get these damn marchers out of my city."

Antipatros said nothing in reply. She sipped more wine. Olympias stared at him as he took in the view from her balcony. "And what of Athens?"

"Not even a nuisance."

"As you've claimed. But I disagree. They have been agitated since the Exiles' Decree, and looking for any excuse to go to war —"

"A war for which they have neither the funds nor experience to win! A war which would be laughably one-sided. Athens is no threat."

"They have a fleet of two-hundred ships! Where is our fleet?"

"Half of their fleet has sat idle in Peiraieus Harbor for months without crews!"

"And if they find crews?"

Antipatros laughed. "Whence will they find enough men for a hundred ships?"

"You said my son has many enemies, did you not?"

"There are not enough here."

"They are all here! Athens, Sparta, Korinth!"

"The poleis of Hellas are distraught, disorganized and mismanaged. What forces they muster tonight, for the next campaign season, are beside the point. All of them are puny compared to the might Babylon possesses."

"Which is in our hands!"

"It is in no one's hands right now; that is the issue."

"We have no clue of that!"

"Clue? My queen, the ambitions your son held for the empire far surpassed what it could properly hold. Revolts will come, in Hellas yes, but also in Persia, Mesopotamia and Aegyptos. The conquests are still fresh; the life of your son's Empire is still young; loyalties are untested. I cannot — we cannot — afford to wait for news. We will fall behind if we wait for such, further behind than we currently are. Which means that we have to catch up. Which is why," he gestured to the marching troops, "I am moving into Asia as soon as possible."

Olympias fumed but said nothing. If he wished to play this game, he could. He forgot, though, that she held the cards. Yes, they were his troops nominally. But they would not move without her permission. All she had to do was deny him that permission. She had dealt with him enough tonight.

"That is all, Antipatros. You are dismissed."

He nodded curtly. With one last, lingering look at the snake, Antipatros left. Olympias drained her wine before continuing to stare out upon the city. Pella — how quickly the fortune of the city had altered. The marching had not ceased, but the footsteps felt farther away now. Still, they agitated her. He agitated her.

"Take his head next time, yes?"

Her guards did not respond.

* * *

**THE PRINCESS**

* * *

There was something tragic in her mother's grief. The King was her brother and her only fit one at that. They must have had some form of a relationship growing up, Eurydike assumed. Regardless of all that, Kynane gave nothing more than a resigned nod as she received the news of her younger brother's demise.

"Are you upset, mother?" Eurydike asked, tiptoeing into the treacherous waters as soon as the messenger departed.

"Now is not the time to be upset, love. That time was months ago when he truly passed. By this point, his body is cold ash." Her mother's voice was as cold as that ash. "No reason to mourn. Nor do we have that luxury. We must play catch-up."

"But he was your brother in more than just name, yes? I mean, you spoke of him rarely but there must have been some good memories?"

"Why do you persist on this subject?" Her mother turned her back on Eurydike as she moved her way across their study to the scrolls.

"It feels odd that you would not feel even the tiniest grief. If I had a sibling—"

"But you don't. Is that what this gripe is about?"

"It is merely a statement mother, nothing mo—"

"Nothing is merely a statement, daughter." Her mother paused her search around the room for something, what Eurydike did not know, to stare at her daughter, her mouth set in a hard line. "If your father were to have been less of a failure of a man than he was, perhaps you would have had a sibling. You were lucky you turned out like me. I couldn't take the chance again."

Eurydike did not respond. This was not a subject she liked to dwell on either, but every once in a while she had the strength to bring it up.

"You wish to hear about my glorious," she spoke the epithet with such sarcasm it bordered on hatred, "brother? Aye, there were good memories, just as there are the bad ones and the nonexistent ones. Perhaps those are the best. Regardless, memories do not make one mourn."

Eurydike disagreed. After all, what were memories if not the only reason to mourn? That all you had left of a loved one was memories, not they themselves? But she did not put her words into the air. No need for such a needless confrontation.

Her mother moved around the room, a goddess of fury tearing apart their letter library. Kynane, the smartest woman in the Makedonian empire, had long kept every letter she had ever received — or intercepted — or written in a library organized by sender, recipient, and date. It was an impressive system that very few knew about. Her mother seemed to undo most of that organization now, however, in minutes as she shredded the library, then the desk, then the shelves. She opened every drawer, checked every cubbyhole. Eurydike was about to ask what she was looking for when her mother continued.

"Do not mourn the dead, my dear. The dead are the only happy ones."

Eurydike stayed quiet, twirling her knife through her fingers. If her mother was rolling, she was rolling. Eurydike could feel a rant coming on. The knife went from slowly dancing around her thumb to furiously spinning between her middle and pointer fingers. She looked up. Apparently her mother was not rolling. Instead, she still continued on her search for whatever.

"What are you looking for?"

"Information."

Eurydike paused. Then: "I wish I had met him."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

Her mother sighed, pausing her mad scramble momentarily to assume a position, with her hands planted firmly behind her on the desk, her legs crossed underneath. It was a position at once innately youthful for no reason and dominant for no reason either.

"Do you fancy that he would have revealed something Heavenly to you? That he would have bathed you in the light of the Gods?"

"You speak to me as if you don't know me at all."

"There's a reason you never met him," her mother continued without acknowledging her daughter.

Eurydike turned her head and sighed. Why had she even bothered? She knew exactly which lecture she would get the moment she had opened her stupid mouth. Why could her mother, for once, have something positive to say about their king, about their family?

"He was corrupted early by his mother. Not a single original thought had ever passed through his head. He's an extension of her." Kynane paused. "Or was."

"Yet you let me near Perseus."

"That is different." Her mother scowled with predictable timing. If there were two things her mother always repeated, it was that Alexandros was a carbon-copy of his mother and Perseus was different. Mother, do you ever get bored of hearing yourself? Eurydike would ask herself. Perhaps she did, considering the way her mother would give a slight flinch whenever the subject was brought up. She knows I'm right and she can't stand it.

The younger brunette smiled. Her mind wandered away from this repetitive conversation to her old companion, wondering how he was doing, how he was handling the King's death. Poorly, if she knew Perseus half as well as she believed she did. A small part of her wished she was able to comfort him. Those moments were the ones Eurydike remembered the most fondly. "Yes, he was," she finally replied with a breathy voice. Her mother frowned.

"Eurydike…" the warning was implied, left unspoken.

"I'm not going to stop. One does not simply stop thinking about Perseus."

"Don't let it cloud your judgment."

"When had it ever?" Eurydike replied, feeling snarky. Her mother gave her a stern gaze in response but Eurydike did not flinch. She was no longer a child, despite her mother's strongest convictions. "Don't look at me like that. Like I'm a child who cannot make my own decision. I know what I'm doing. I learned from you, after all."

Her mother's gaze softened. "Well, you learned flattery well enough."

"See?"

"I do not warn you out of habit, however." The moment of connection was gone, like most of them. It was not that her mother was mean or was not proud, moreso that her mother had a difficult time showing her true emotions. Eurydike learned to get over it. "You will see him again soon."

"What?" This was unexpected — an arrow from an unseen assailant. "I will?"

"Very soon, if my gut leads me right."

"What have you heard?" Seeing Perseus again, after all these years, would be something else. Would he be willing to pick up where they left off? Would she? How much had he changed? Even with all that uncertainty, she wanted to know him now. She wanted, desperately, feel his scars, the new and the old, feel his muscle. She wanted too to feel him sliding inside her again, feel him taking her as rough as he could. She wanted to hear him growl Dike into her ear.

"That Athens is going to blow."

"But we just learned of his death! How could they know—"

"They don't. But the city was always going to blow regardless, between the Harpalos affair and the Exiles Decree. My brother was too soft on that damn city. Even Olympias agreed."

"So what does that have to do with Perseus?"

"In Rhodes, my brother realized the flaw of his empire. It covered all of the Thalassa yet Athens remained the most dominant Navy in his empire. Athens, his biggest enemy—"

"I thought that was Persia," Eurydike muttered.

"His most persistent enemy, then." Her mother conceded.

"So what does this have to do with Perseus."

Her mother gave her a look she associated with 'Do Better'. Eurydike scowled. She hated that look. So she thought for a second. Really, it did not take that long. She understood why her mother was upset.

"...That's his fleet."

Her mother nodded.

Eurydike gulped.

His fleet. Perseus, her Perseus, commanding a fleet? The boy she had grown up with so innocent and naive about everything, the boy who was always so eager to help others… leading a fleet of warships with the sole purpose of sacking a city. It was almost unbelievable.

Almost.

She still remembered too that feral glint in his eyes when he fought on the training grounds. The way he beat men twice his age and twice his size into submission.

Perseus was a good person, she knew that. But she also knew he was a killer.

And scary good at it.

"He'll be on his way." It took Eurydike a moment to realize her mother was giving her a look, one of those looks that forced you to remember something. She hated it when her mother continuously tested her. The young Princess could not remember a time where she had a conversation with her mother that did not end up as a rhetorical battle.

"What?"

"With the Navy at his back and the Queen's trust," a wave of jealousy washed over Eurydike as she realized her mother meant Rhoxana too, "Perseus will be the most powerful man in the world. I would not be shocked either if my brother had named him his successor."

Perseus, a King? Eurydike shuddered at the thought. It did not suit him, a crown. It would fall crooked on his head.

"Olympias would support Perseus?"

"She thinks she groomed him. And the boy is blindly loyal to the Dynasty. Perfect material for a King she can control. So, of course, she will. That is, if Alexandros' Persian bride has not yet been knocked up. Gods know it has taken him a while. The Dynasty must continue someway, however, and if my brother has no legitimate heir, there is another way." Her mother paused. Eurydike thought. Her eyes widened.

"No, mother!"

"Perseus would arrive with a Navy, and he will return to Babylon with an army. Olympias' army. And, he will return with a Queen. You will marry Perseus and in doing so keep the bloodline of Herakles alive."

Eurydike sat in stunned silence. If her mother had told her this ten years ago, she would have rushed to his side and cried with gay tears. Yet she was older now and it was not so simple. Marriage had gone from a cute childhood dream to a drain on passion. A marriage of convenience — for that was what this truly was — worked even better at drying out romance or lust. After all, half of the fun of their relationship was in its youthful, energetic nature.

Of course, she still wanted Perseus as her friend and as her lover. But to lock them together in the chains of marriage? It would lead to boredom. And if there was anything Eurydike hated with the vilest of passions, it was boredom.

"I thought you'd be happy." Eurydike was at least comforted by the frown playing across her mother's lips.

"Marriage is boring," Eurydike complained. "A forced coupling of two people who will change. I don't want to be chained like that."

"Perseus? Boring? My, my if I hadn't heard you say it for myself I would never believe it."

"Perseus isn't boring, mother. It's marriage that makes people dull."

"The greatest thing your uncle ever did was kill your father." Her mother had made the comment with an off-handed nature, which made it hurt just a little more.

Eurydike flinched. Yes, she had been young. Yes, she had known him very poorly. Yes, she had not heard good things about him. But the fact that her father, an Argead king once, was killed by her uncle, an Argead King as well, did not sit right within her. The Dynasty, Hellas' greatest, should stick together in her opinion. Division never ruled.

It had always irked her that her uncle had only ever brought along his retarded half-brother on his conquests. Why not her mother, or her? Reward the family, make it his top crop of generals and governors. Instead, the Dynasty was scattered and dwindling, leading to only a few princesses and a half-wit prince left. Perhaps some bastards too, if it was indeed Roxanna who was the infertile one.

"Gods he was dull," her mother continued. "Not a single shred of ambition or self-preservation in that man. A shell of a man, really."

Kynane stared at her daughter's forlorn expression. She sighed, pausing her rant, and walked over to her daughter.

"Do not grieve for your father, my daughter. He does not deserve your tears."

"What will happen to us? To our family? Our legacy, it's falling to dust."

"Dust? What nonsense do you speak of?"

"What is left of the Argeads, Zeus' chosen?" Eurydike stood up from her chair, walking over to the window that overlooked most of Amphipolis. "We are nothing but a half-wit, a bundle of bastards, and a few princesses. We were once more numerous than any royal family of Greece."

"Which is why when he comes, you must marry Perseus. He may not be an Argead, but he was as close to Alexandros as any man ever was. It is up to you to continue the family legacy. Do you understand? Olympias can do nothing; she is too mad with grief to be rational. Arrhidaios will never be crowned King of anything, and if there is a babe, Alexandros' son is half Persian. The nobles of Makedon would never accept such an heir. The fate of our lineage, of Herakles' lineage, rests with you, my dear."

Eurydike watched the cobalt seas merge with the radiant sun. Apollo drove his chariot onwards, dragging the sun behind him. The gorgeous variance of the sky, from purple to yellow, must be how Elysium looked all the time. Eternal sunset. Eurydike hoped that was her moira, to end up there. Were you eternally young in Elysium? Or was the gods' final joke to give you eternity in heaven as a frail old woman, unable to enjoy the pleasures that made life enjoyable? Or perhaps Elysium was only reserved for those who died young.

Eternally young. What she would not give for an eternity back in her youthful ignorance with Perseus, who, somewhere leagues away, was dealing with the same difficulties as she? It gave her a small bit of solace to know what was happening in his life again. They had not been able to write to each other for many moons. Eurydike wondered what he was thinking. Was he as burdened as her? Did he feel the pressure to carry on a legacy of insurmountable greatness? Did he still dream of reuniting with her?

She missed him, so badly. But instead of hope, as she should have felt knowing her best friend was on his way home, her mother's knowledge only filled her with dread.

* * *

**Yeah, it's been a bit. Sorry but not. Writing's difficult. Life's a bitch. I'll try to update consistently but sometimes life and/or writer's block get in the way. Also writing 12k words is not easy. Or quick. But I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I definitely enjoyed parts of it — I'm very proud of the dialogue, and of Eurydike. Finally, on the whole confusing timeline — this FF post is mostly a beta run before a main post on AO3. You all might have to deal with some plot issues or timeline weirdness, but I promise it will a) eventually make sense and b) be rectified in a final, refined post on AO3.**

* * *

**Good reviews get reviewed, cause apparently I'm doing this now. #wordcountinflation #hahanotreally #yeahoakyitsortais**

**From JC RH:**

_Fuck you man. I have to use Google to search for the meanings of some words every paragraph. Seriously though, incredible stuff. It's apparent you put a lot of effort into this.__That Percabeth part is just the wishfullment and more fanfiction-y part of me. No need to take that serious. And I don't want Percy to be perfect, I hate OP stories. Just not a stupid guy. The way you described him in this was perfectly fine. Instinctual._  
_On this chapter I liked how you used Annabeth's name. Most stories set in ancient Greek simple use it as Annabeth so this was refreshing and good to see._  
_I liked the way the plot progressed as well. The names and stuff are slowly becoming familiar so that's a plus. If I had to say I'd say that parts with Annabeth are weakest and it's not surprising given her current situation compared to where the main protagonist finds himself in. I like how HBO this is as well. Plot is progressing nicely but there isn't much to speak of since we can't really put two and two together yet. So hopefully you'll update as soon as possible._  
_And like always, don't abondon the project. Ohh and looking forward to reading your stories with maps and all._

**Fuck you too. Less Greek. You happy now? Cause I'm not.**

**Also, names becoming familiar? Hahahaha just you wait. I don't even understand my own plot anymore so if you can you get a karrot. Yeah Annabeth's situation is important for _her_ but doesn't seem important for the story. Yet. I'm trying to update ASAP but sometimes chapters are just difficult to start and difficult to finish. I bs-ed my way through a lot of this chapter. There are some fun chapters coming up though. Also AO3 publishing will be dope — maps, images, playlists, etc.**

**Anyways, thanks for reading! Always appreciate your reviews.**

* * *

**From Dretoven:**

_I was thinking literally the same thing as JC RH when he talked about how these types of stories often take long to write and are abandoned and why. This "genre" so to speak of PJO fanfic is, however, definitely one of my favorite. I think you have written it spectacularly so far. All the behind the scenes work and background research is clearly evident. I definitely like how you don't sugarcoat anything from those times. Im sure some will be offended, as usual, but I think it gives the story a much realer feel. I also definitely get the epic vibe of this story, and I fw it hard. The exploring of different themes, motifs, and values, developing characters, heroic deeds, and spanning more than just a couple years: love it. I've always wanted to write something like that, but never have. On that note, you mentioned beta-reading offers. While I have zero experience as a beta for anybody and honestly don't know everything it entails, I'm willing to step up to the task if there is nobody more experienced, because this is definitely an epic tale I would like to see finished. Plus I love history, especially the classical era, so that helps lol. Anyways, sorry for the long review, but I can't wait for the next chapter! Keep up the great work!_

**Thank you for your beta offer, first off, but I've got that covered. Just sit back and enjoy the (slow-moving) show.**

**Yeah the lack of sugarcoating is going to get a lot worse soon, so I hope you enjoy that... The story is epic (or should feel that way) but grounded too. It's a hard balance to strike so I appreciate the fact that you think it's hitting both themes well.**

**Much thanks to my Beta-reader, Vanadium Oxide — so much of this chapter would not have been possible without him. Thanks man.**

**As always, thank you for reading and reviewing!**

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**Up next on Game of Thrones-but-it-is-Percy-Jackson-and-not-half-as-well-written:**

"I won't hurt you..." Antiphalos kissed Annabeth's neck. "I promise."

...

"What in Hades do you think you were doing?"

"I was getting rid of a threat." Perseus stood his ground, glaring at the spitting Perdikkas.

"You acted without thinking, that's what you did."

...

Aegyptos... his. Ptolemaios smiled. If Perdikkas thought Kleomenes could contain him, he was sorely mistaken. Ptolemaios would not be denied his prize.

...

Perdikkas doubted even Peithon or Leonnatos were truly his allies anymore. He doubted anyone was his ally anymore. Eumenes, perhaps, but the Greek scribe was utterly useless.

* * *

**Striving to provide Southern Hospitality the world over,**

**LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy)**


	5. V

**V**

* * *

Annabeth's first time. Alexander's Empire is partitioned. Perdikkas gets paranoid. Krateros plays a game.

* * *

**THE DAUGHTER OF ATHENS**

* * *

Her husband burst into their room, smiling dumbly. He was drunk, no doubt, and a happy drunk at that. "Are you not happy? Today — today has been the greatest day!"

"Why?" Annabeth did not feel her husband's excitement. She hadn't felt excitement at all day, and she felt less knowing what was about to come. She felt as dead inside as her tone sounded.

"Because Alexandros the despot is dead! Athens is free, finally free, from his oppressive yoke. Democracy can finally return to Athens! This city can once again thrive!"

Annabeth said nothing, choosing to stare blankly at her hands.

"Do you not care about any of that?" Her husband said it as if she could do no worse thing.

"Alexandros never did anything to me," she replied. "I was born after he conquered Athens. His rule is all I've ever known."

"Well, you're about to experience something amazing, something liberating. I promise you, my dear new wife, that this new world will be much better than the shit one you've known."

Annabeth reluctantly gave a small smile. A part of her, a small, stupid, girlish part of her, was upset with her new husband; upset that he did not seem to care at all that they were now married. Now, Annabeth did not need love poems or whispered confessions of affection late in the night – she barely even desired those things. But there was something sad in the fact that her husband's newfound happiness would have occurred with or without her. It was all about politics again, maybe about her appearance – but not about her and those little things that made her her. Annabeth felt like nothing had changed. She still was not appreciated, still not wanted.

That was to say nothing of his declaration, his idea that the new, "liberating" world would be better than her current one. His liberating world had been oppressing her world from the beginning. The despotic one had not changed a thing, she was sure. Men ruled without concern for women — democracy, oligarchy, monarchy, it made no difference. A new ruler, a new ruling system – it would change nothing. Nothing had changed, nothing would change.

Her husband did not seem to believe what she believed, obviously. He was stupidly optimistic even without a drop of wine in him. He was excitedly and stupidly optimistic with wine. His inebriated state was only an elevated state of his sober state. He had not stopped pacing once since entering their bedroom.

Their bedroom… Annabeth looked down at her dress again, then at her clasped hands. The fingers fidgeted with each other in a desperate fight where there was no clear reason to win.

Her husband turned to her, a bright smile stretching across his face. "My lovely wife!" He grabbed her hands. His fingers felt large, and too soft. It felt like she was holding her mother's hands, or her younger brother's hands. A man's hands should not feel like they had held a pen instead of a sword. "Tonight has been the best night of my life. Would you do the honor of making it even better?"

Annabeth could do nothing but give a slight, compulsory nod. It was barely enough for her to register that she had nodded, but Antiphalos took it as a full-throated endorsement of his quest. He kissed her hands after bringing them to his mouth. He looked down at her dress. His hands dropped her own and began running down to her hips. "You're going to love this," he told her as his lips fell down to hers.

**Π**

She was stoic until he entered her. As much as her step-mother's advice rang in her head throughout the wedding feast, once Annabeth had left the only home she had ever known, it all went out the window. It was replaced instead with an ever-growing mix of fear and nerves. Once his hands were on her, all Annabeth could do to keep from running – which every part of her was very much inclined to do – was focus on breathing. Once he was inside of her, the pain and fear became too much.

Annabeth was not truly terrified of him. He was nearly incompetent, too happy, and too self-centered to worry her. But when he had her pinned to the bed, she realized how weak she was compared to her husband – to any man really. The lack of any physical training had never frustrated her more than it had in that moment. If he had wanted to hurt her, he could have. If he had wanted to kill her, he could have. It was the "could" that terrified her most. It was the lack of control over her own life.

So even though she felt sick to her stomach when he finished inside of her, Annabeth could not help but feel a sense of relief and gratitude as he rolled off of her, sliding into the edge of bed, spent and finished. He had not lasted long and the night was not something she loved. But it was over and he was off of her.

Finally, her step-mother's advice came back to her. Annabeth slid out of bed quietly, so as not to wake her new husband. Her feet found their footing. Her hands found her dress. Hurriedly, her hands ran the dress up her body, with no less eagerness and vigor than her husband had run it down her body. She ran out to the latrine.

After relieving herself – hopefully of her husband's seed as well – Annabeth tried gathering herself. There was a sickness building in her stomach. It was not the food or the wine. It combined with the feeling of him inside of her to create an eternally nauseous ruckus in her stomach. Worms, she felt like worms were crawling under of her skin. She sat back down on the latrine to try and compose herself.

The smell of the latrine helped little. Annabeth found herself emptying her stomach this time. Her hair fell into her face. Vomit weaved into her hair, dirtying herself even further. As she leaned her head down the latrine one more time, her eyes welled up and a dam burst. Her tears mixed with the vomit and her piss in the toilet. Her hands ran through her vomit-laden hair, tugging at every knot left by her unwinding braids. If she had had any dignity left before tonight, it was gone by midnight.

* * *

**THE BODYGUARD**

* * *

Perseus was not expecting Perdikkas' outburst, which was an understatement. His morning had been fairly normal up until the ambush. He had woken up to bread, water, an egg, and he had gone for his normal morning run along the Double Walls. By the time he finished, Ethandros was awake. The boy prepared a cool bath for him and had gotten his master dressed in casual clothes, not thinking about armor. Still, it was so early that Apollo himself was only just waking. He had seen very few other soldiers, perhaps only a dozen who would run along the walls with him. He rarely kept pace with them, but when he would pass them again both sides would give sympathetic waves.

Perseus did not like to wake so early. In fact, Perseus believed for much of his life that Hypnos' realm was where he was happiest. Lately, that had not been as true. His nights were plagued by nightmares, years of campaigns haunting him. But for some time it had been his happy place, stopping him from getting out of bed in the morning.

Dreams were where he could relive his youth, utterly unconcerned with politics. There he could stand side-by-side with his King, or get tangled up with him in the King's tent before battle. Alexandros was unlike most of his other lovers. True, most of them were female. But even the men he laid with, men like Hephaistion, Perseus could dominate easily. The King was a proud man, however, and would not go down so easily. Their coupling would be rough, often drawing blood. Neither man would back down.

Or instead, he could ride through the woods of the environs outside Pella. With Eurydike. They could be children forever in his dreams. They would ride through shrublands, those forests that the gods had stepped on, and through the thick trees that existed only leagues outside of the capital. There they would hunt — deer, boar, each other. Their couplings were as passionate as his ones with the King, but of a different nature. Eurydike loved to lose all inhibition, especially in the woods. There was absolutely nothing she loved more than a rough fucking. Aphrodite knew how much his cock missed the way she said that word, 'fucking,' or how she screamed his name like a Bacchant prayer. She, like most of his other lovers, let him take her. Unlike most of them, however, she could take it as rough as he could give it.

Perseus groaned as he began to make his way into the halls of the Palace, into his day. He was far too aroused. It had been, what, three days since the King had died? Perseus had been in mourning even before that, so by this point he had not fucked for almost two weeks. He supposed he could fix his issue quickly, but the whores in Babylon could not do it for him. They were too submissive. It was like fucking a log. He missed the fight of his King, the endurance of Eurydike. Perhaps he should have taken up the King's offer of being wed to a Persian bride. Perseus could have taken up Amastris. Krateros' wife had lingered around the palace after the Silver General left; she had held no purpose to her husband even before he was ordered back to Hellas.

It was a waste of a marriage, really. Amastris was as great a beauty as the world had to offer. Krateros was a man of far less beauty in both face and body. Yet to Perseus' knowledge — which was admittedly limited, for courtly gossip never truly interested him — they had bedded on their marriage night and that was it. For everything in him that was honorable and good, Perseus knew any more denial of his cock would lead to him taking another man's wife. A more Spartan way of doing things, Perseus joked to himself.

Perseus raised a hand to the bridge of his nose and groaned. He needed to stop thinking about girls and his cock, and his cock in girls. It seemed that the gods listened to his thoughts and had sent him a cure, a surefire way to get out of his cock-obsessed thoughts.

"Boy!"

Perseus looked up from his musings on women to face a very angry Perdikkas. The taller man looked absolutely furious. Though the sight of Perdikkas was enough to soften his cock, the angry look set his heart beating like a racehorse. Perseus struggled to rack his mind for anything he might have done after lunch yesterday.

As far as Perseus remembered he had simply taken a nap then dined with Ptolemaios. Neither thing could have set the ill-tempered warlord off in this manner. Though he was getting snippy with Ptolemaios. The two men were at each other's' throats lately more often than not, so perhaps he's upset with me for taking Ptolemaios' side? Perseus thought. Would any of it have been enough to tick off Perdikkas in this way?

"What?" Perseus asked.

"What were you doing yesterday?!"

"That's what I'm trying to understand as well. What's so important that it was your balls in such a twist?" Perseus did not hate Perdikkas in the way Ptolemaios did, but the older man could grate on his nerves. Too officious, too self-certain. Perseus liked teasing him.

Perdikkas, the curmudgeon he was, growled. "None of your bullshit, Perseus. I'm talking about Meleagros. His men. Your unauthorized executions."

"You didn't seem too worried about this at all yesterday. There's been a lot of time between that execution and now. Why not say something earlier?"

His hand had unconsciously slipped to his sword hilt. It was something he did whenever he felt threatened. He was always certain that he could kill a problem faster than it could blink.

"Stay your blade, boy." Perseus looked down in subtle shock at the action. Was he that paranoid? He knew even so much pulling his blade out on Perdikkas would set off a war. But apparently he was not thinking straight — or at all. "Not every issue you face can be solved with violence."

Perseus flinched, remembering the way his spear went through Meleagros' skull. Perdikkas continued.

"Meleagros. Explain. Now."

"Sentences too much for you now?" Perseus peered up at the older somatophylax, determined not to lose this battle of wills. Fuck his budding regret of his actions. Perseus was not going to lose this argument.

"I said cut the bullshit. You defied an order to go—"

"I defied no fucking order, I just remedied your shit one! Honestly, fucking Meleagros, out of everyone? Why him? I outrank him, so why not me? Don't get me started on orders, Perdikkas. This whole fucking situation — the whole situation we're in is a complete shit show!"

Perdikkas fumed from only an arms' reach away. His long face felt longer from the curly beard that adorned its base. The proud man was as unlikely to back down in this situation as Perseus. "And it would be less of a shit show if you started to listen and obey."

"I disobeyed a bad order, my apologies. Next time I'll let Meleagros continue going about his coup."

"Next time you should inform me of your plans so we can—"

"We can what? Present a more organized plan? My plan was plenty organized, in case you don't know."

"Ah, yes, your little hit squad. You think that your band of worshippers—"

"They don't worship me."

"—is an organized plan? No, it was efficient. It wasn't organized. Organized would be me taking your men and trampling them underfoot with my elephants, then claiming it as an accident."

"Don't you dare," Perseus growled as he got closer to the Regent, "threaten my men again. If you do, Meleagros will be the least of your worries."

Perdikkas just stared calmly back. "Do not disobey me again Perseus. Or there will be war. Do I make myself clear?"

Perseus refused to back down, to lose. "War? Why? Because your panties were in a twist?"

"You were a good soldier, what happened?" Perdikkas stepped away. He turned to the side, as if examining the artistry of the walls. "You are still a soldier. And I am regent." Perdikkas walked in front of Perseus, a head taller, breathing down with hot breath. "Remember that. You are respected by many here, even by me. But do not mistake that respect for a long leash. Do not defy me again, do I make myself clear, soldier?"

Perseus breathed in and out, unclenching his fists. "My men," he began, but Perdikkas waved his hand.

"Are safe, as long as their leader makes the smart move."

Perseus gave a terse nod. He was not happy with the current state of affairs, but Perdikkas was right, not that Perseus would ever admit it. He had made a mistake with Meleagros. If his was King was still alive, the move would have only been slightly less stupid. Granted, his King never would have let the whole situation happen in the first place. But Alexandros was dead, and the balance of power had clearly shifted. Perdikkas had the power to harm Perseus' men, whether or not Perseus' liked it. Perdikkas was in charge. Perseus was a soldier. And good soldiers follow orders. "I understand."

"Good." Perdikkas handed Perseus an arm. Taking a breath to calm himself, Perseus locked forearms with the general. "Just listen and we'll get through this."

**Π**

"I heard that you were ambushed."

"It seems to be a common occurrence today."

Ptolemaios chuckled. "You leave yourself open."

"I'm walking through the fucking halls. Can't a man have some peace?"

"Not in Babylon. What happened?"

"I'm not in a talking mood."

Silence prevailed. Ptolemaios had ambushed him while Perseus was walking to the arena. The two men had planned, earlier, before Perdikkas, to meet and pay their respects at the King's bedside. With all of the chaos of the past few days, no one had time to properly grieve for their King. Once or twice Perseus had broken down, unable to control his emotions. He was struggling in public to keep those fits of grief private. He needed to properly mourn before he broke down in public.

Now, however, Perseus was angered and upset. He did not like to lose, and his fight with Perdikkas had been a loss in many ways. He needed to go to the arena, let off some steam. Talking with Ptolemaios, who was notoriously intrusive with his life, was not high on Perseus' lists of things to do today. But he was curious about one thing.

"How did you find out?"

"Neither of you were that quiet. And I have people who keep me informed."

"Who else knows?"

"I don't know."

"I'm assuming more than I want."

"Possibly. But then again your stunt at the council meeting yesterday morning was not exactly a quiet affair. Your fight won't give anyone any new knowledge."

"It makes me look weak." Perseus paused walking, thinking about the implications of the disagreement. "It makes us look weak."

Ptolemaios stopped with and turned to his protege. "That was smart of you."

Perseus replied with a side-eyed look.

"You're realizing that you fucked up, aren't you?"

"Did I fuck up?"

"Perhaps. Killing Meleagros and his supporters is a start, depriving them of leadership, but you didn't entirely kill the sentiment. Plus, the way you killed him…"

"It was a dishonorable way of killing a man."

"Indeed. You should have at least let him fight you. You would have achieved the same result."

"I was angry."

"But it's not terrible." Ptolemaios continued, ran a hand through his hair. "The way you did it, yes it was bad. You also quelled a coup before it was possible _and_ you knew that only you could do it. You're learning. You did well and I'm proud."

Perseus smiled at the ground. Ptolemaios put his hand on Perseus' shoulder. "Now if you feel polluted," the older man continued, "then go wash it off in the river. I'll send a priest with you if you really need it."

"I…" Perseus paused for a moment, considering it. "Yes, that would be nice."

"Good. Then it will be done. Now, on to more politics."

Perseus groaned good naturedly. Ptolemaios laughed and placed his arm around the younger man's shoulders. "Can we not?"

"We will. And we need to. We're going to be split soon. That means that neither myself nor Alexandros will have your back anymore. Those enemies that you've built up—"

"I can handle myself!"

"I'm sure you can. But only if you know what's coming. You need informants. Spies loyal to you."

"I do not."

"You do."

"Did the King have spies everywhere? No, yet he was able to create the world's greatest empire."

"But he had people who had spies."

"We rarely used their information."

"In India, yes, but you were not there for Persia. You do not remember how much we relied on their words."

"I can handle myself fine without spies," Pereseus responded with a bite in his voice.

Ptolemaios gave an exasperated sigh. "Then do you know what the men are saying in the camps now?"

"No. Should I?"

"There are many murmurs. To many you are far more preferable than Perdikkas, to some even more preferable than whatever unfortunate child child may come out of Rhoxana's womb."

"I've heard that," Perseus replied, troubled. "And dismissed that. If they think that for one moment that I am going to go against the Queen and her son and try and stake claim to a Throne that I have no claim to, they're an idiot."

"You have a claim through Eurydike." Perseus froze upon hearing the name.

"What do you mean?"

"She's still unmarried."

"I…" Perseus trailed off into thought. But he did not wish to stay there. He changed topics. "I thought you said there were whispers of dissent against me?"

"I did."

"So what is it? Are they crowning me King? Or do they lead a rebellion against me?"

"Perhaps both are true, all at once. I doubt Meleagros' remaining supporters are too happy, but there are countless soldiers and officers who'd die for you. Beware of false dichotomies."

"What is that supposed to mean?" It had been a rough morning, and Perseus' tone had declined with it.

"Many things can be true at once, even things that seem exclusionary."

"You speak in twisted riddles too often for my liking."

"Yet you keep coming back," Ptolemaios offered with a small smile.

"It seems as though I'm a masochist."

"Far better than a sadist."

"Speak of the devil," Perseus mumbled, his mood dropping as quickly as their witty retorts had brought it back up, "and he shall appear."

Marching up to the chatting pair was the Antipatrid Kassandros. The golden boy of his family, who was in fact a dark rogue. Perseus had heard far too many comparisons between him and Kassandros. Many of them revolved around their looks alone, but he had heard more than once about their comparable personalities. He still remembers the first time he had heard the comparison. He was in Makedonia, fucking some whore with Eurydike.

_After he took over, as he was wont to do once his cock was hard enough, and was thoroughly dominating the whore, the black-haired woman spoke._

"_Once you lose a little bit of inhibition, do you know who you remind me of?"_

_The whore lay underneath him, her cunt a vice grip on his cock. One of his hands was around her throat, besieging it. Eurydike was lying to the side of the older woman. She was not a jealous lover, fortunately, but a competitive one. The stunning brunette teen, already better looking than most women in the world, enjoyed watching as Perseus would pound other girls. She liked to gloat that she could last longer, which she usually did. Plus, she was not against the female body. She was accordingly playing with the ready tits of the buxom whore. Eurydike's other hand was probably playing with her own breasts or buried somewhere deep within her core._

"_Who?" He asked, voice deep and guttural. _

"_Kassandros."_

_The room, hot with passion, chilled considerably. Eurydike's roaming hand ceased roaming. Perseus growled at the older woman._

"_Don't you dare compare me to that cunt."_

_To emphasize his point, Perseus slapped the older woman's cheek. It left a red mark, but the whore took it erotically. She smiled back seductively._

_It was a well-known secret that Perseus and Kassandros, nearly a decade older, hated each other. Perseus thought Kassandros an arrogant shit who could not back up half of his talk. Kassandros, for his part, thought Perseus an equally pampered, favored "boy-slave" of Olympias and Kynane. Neither even wished for the animosity to disappear. _

_Still, the buxom woman continued. The way she smiled, her crooked teeth coming out, meant that she was as aware of the secret enmity as everyone else in the capital. _

"_You two are more similar than you realize."_

"_I would shut up if I were you," Eurydike warned, but the older woman paid her no heed. Perseus gave a sympathetic smile to his lover._

"_You are both confident, ambitious killers. You hide it better than he does, you've hidden it so well that you don't even know it, but at the end of the day you two are the same person."_

"_And how did a whore get so wise?" Perseus asked, slowly gyrating his cock into her hot cunt._

"_Men reveal themselves when they're drunk and when they're fucking."_

_Perseus might have been disgusted that he was sharing the same girl as Kassandros, but he honestly did not care that much. He was sure he had before. Still, he was tired of thinking about Antipatros' cunt of son when he had two beautiful women to please. _

_Perseus choked the whore a bit. Her eyes lidded over as he slowly picked up speed in his hips. "Compare us again…" He left the threat hanging. Then he began to give her hard, dominating thrusts. He would pound into her mercilessly the rest of the night until her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her tongue rolled aimlessly out of her mouth._

_Eurydike won again that night._

Gods… Perseus smiled at the memory. They had been so young. What age were they at that point? Fifteen? Sixteen? Even then he was carving a warpath through whorehouses and cute serving girls with his lover.

Evidently, however, he had been caught up in memories for far too long.

"Are you still with us, Perseus?"

Kassandros' voice was as grating to Perseus' nerves at it ever was.

"Memories, I apologize."

"It is a time for reflection," Ptolemaios replied.

"Especially good ones," Perseus said.

"No, no," Kassandros countered. "It is most definitely a time to think ahead. Not to get lost in the past."

"I imagine you've done a fair bit of that," Perseus spat. His mentor eyed him warily, trying to get him to back down. Perseus would not. His temper had been raging for days now. Kassandros was just more fuel for the fire.

And Ptolemaios had angered him on the subject of Kassandros lately. No longer was his ally as steadfastly convinced that Kassandros was the one who killed the King, like the rest of the _somatophylakes_ believed. Over the three days after Kassandros became the prime suspect, Ptolemaios had gotten it in his head that he was not. Thus Perseus ignored his mentor.

"Oh I have. Haven't you?"

"I'm still in mourning. Our King's death has come as quite the shock to us all. I am doing what I can to aid my Queen, as well. There is not much time for foresight."

Something terrible sparkled in Kassandros' eyes once Perseus mentioned Rhoxana. "You always did like Argead women."

Perseus' nostrils flared and his hand went to his sword hilt. "Shut your fucking mouth before I rip your tongue out of it!"

"And your tempered hasn't changed either. What happens again when your temper gets too hot? I've only heard the stories."

Perseuse lunged at the smirking man, but Ptolemaios held him back.

"Careful, my little Perseus. Eurydike isn't here to guide you out of harm's way by your cock, or hide your insolence from my father with a flash of her tits."

Perseus made again at Kassandros, but Ptolemaios again held him back. "Don't be a fool, boy," he whispered.

"She looks lovely by the way. Undying Aphrodite, her nude form is as perfect as when you left her. Better even." With that, Kassandros gloated with cruel intention at Perseus, then nodded at Ptolemaios. "Have a good day." He turned around and walked from where he came, as if his only purpose was to goad Perseus.

"And you still don't believe he did it?" Perseus asked Ptolemaios as soon as he got out of the older man's grip.

"He's an arrogant ass, yes, but that does not mean he's a fool. The way he played you is evidence enough to that."

"But not evidence that he didn't do it."

"He knows he's the obvious choice as the perpetrator. Thus he would never do it."

"I still don't believe you."

"Come on," Ptolemaios sighed. "You wanted to pay your respects again?"

"I was going to, but not now." Perseus glared at the direction Kassandros came from, as if he was trying to remove Kassandros' footsteps from the hall.

Ptolemaios hummed. "No, best you don't. Go to the arena, find a few men to beat."

"I'm going to need a lot of men."

"Well, you're lucky." Ptolemaios patted Perseus' back. "There are a lot of men willing to fight you."

Fighting in the arena was hard, much harder than normal combat. Arena fighting was about endurance. None of the men were actively trying to kill each other. Fighting men while trying to keep them alive was far more difficult than killing. Perseus had learned that lesson a while ago. Killing was easy. Two moves and someone was dead. Sparring took ages and a lot more out of him. In that way, at least, it was what tired him out the most. But right now, he wanted blood. Kassandros' blood.

"I might kill someone if I spar."

Ptolemaios snorted and shook his head. Perseus could feel the exasperation coming from him. "Go run."

"I already did."

"Run again. Seriously, run the rest of the day. There's nothing planned for a while."

"Something will come up."

"Just run." Ptolemaios was starting to sound exasperated. "Please, do something other than steam."

If anyone else had been so demanding, Perseus would have bucked their advice and killed Kassandros then and there. But Perseus, for as much as everyone called him an impulse idiot, knew when other people cared about him. It was why he was so fiercely loyal. When he knew people cared, he was more willing to listen. Plus, if he killed Kassandros now, Perdikkas would be the least of his worries. So he nodded and took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Okay, I'll go run."

"Good. Try _not_ to kill anyone?" Ptolemaios jested.

Perseus gave him a half smile and the older man moved off of him. The two said their goodbyes. Perseus watched Ptolemaios walk off in the direction Kassandros came. He felt alone. Hephaistion and Alexandros were gone from the world. Krateros had been sequestered in Kilikia. Ptolemaios remained but was always a bit aloof. He was close by proxy with Lysimakhos, and while the two could get along, Perseus felt a distance between them. Of course, there was the Queen but going to her now felt selfish. She had far more worries and problems than any of the _somatophylakes_.

Perseus wiped the sweat off his brow. The overwhelming feeling of loneliness was drowning him. His anger was dragging him down deeper still. He needed to run. Or fight. Or something.

**Π**

A week later, Perseus had been the last to enter the map room. The rest of the somatophylakes were gathered around the table, discussing the various satrapies awarded to which general, which acolyte of the King, which ass-kisser. Calling it a discussion ignored the fact that it was mainly Perdikkas talking, with a few interjections from Ptolemaios.

Or so Perseus learned later. He had spent the morning and majority of the afternoon performing various tasks for Perdikkas. Most of Perseus' week had been spent performing these little tasks. They would be anything from bringing the men to muster in the morning to dealing with the quartermaster's needs to overseeing the cleaning of the stables. Perseus had nearly scoffed at that order. Perdikkas was so obviously testing him. He did the task anyways. Yes, they were quiet admissions of Perseus' submission. Yes, it grated on him. If it protected his men, that was good enough for him.

It meant, though, that Perseus wound up late for this meeting of grand importance. So important and powerful a meeting it was taht it was wrapping up within an hour.

"And in Lydia, Menandros that will remain to you," Perdikkas said to the hetairos, who had arrived in Babylon with reinforcements a month before the King fell ill. Menandros was standing, along witht the rest of the high command, around a large, circular table with a map of the world painted on it. Upon seeing Perseus enter, flustered, the older general smiled. It was an unsettling smile. "Ah, Perseus. Excellent. You've arrived."

"Sorry I was late." The apology was forced, grunted.

"We've discussed your position."

Perseus glanced around the room warily, trying to make eye contact with Ptolemaios. Eventually, he found his mentor. The older man stood across from Perdikkas, his gaze firmly on the map of Alexandros' empire. As if he could feel Perseus' green eyes on him, Ptolemaios lifted his brown ones to meet. His expression was empathetic, pitying.

"And?" Perseus' tone was more confrontational than he thought Perdikkas might like. The older general narrowed his eyes.

"You're the youngest of us, by far. We agreed —" queue a slight cough from Lysimakhos — "that you would be better off without a satrapy to run at such a young, inexperienced age."

Perseus' jaw dropped. Yes, he understood that he was young. But Alexandros was only two or so years his elder when he took command of a kingdom. Not even a satrapy? Perseus was pissed. It wasn't so much that Perseus greatly desired a satrapy. Still, he had never expected not to run one in the weeks since the King died. But it was about more than that. It was about the respect he, as a somatophylax, as one of the King's most trusted advisors – his closest friend – was owed. This was downright fucking unblelievable.

Perseus was about to open his mouth to voice his complaints when Ptolemaios interjected. The older man lifted his head from the board, staring down Perseus with an implicit warning. "The regent thinks it prudent to use your skills elsewhere. He knows of your prowess on the battlefield and would rather reassign you to aid Antipatros."

"Yes," Perdikkas sounded like someone had stolen the final piece of bread at dinner, the piece of bread he wanted. "Yes, that is indeed the case. You are going to assist Antipatros."

"Assist him how?"

"There are likely to be multiple opportunists who see the power vacuum as a means of sowing discord and rebellion against the King's legacy."

"And…?"

Perdikkas glared at the insolent response. "And, you will lead your troops to Hellas in order to be of service to Antipatros however he needs you."

Perseus wanted to say, like an errand boy? but held his tongue. Instead, he simply nodded. It was all he could do at the moment. If he opened his mouth, something stupid was coming out.

Perdikkas nodded as well, turning back to the partition. The men around the table shifted, obviously discomforted by the division. "Asandros," Perdikkas cleared his throat before continuing, "will keep Karia, Menandros be sure to alert him to that…"

**Π**

In the following week, Perseus's life took a turn for the worse. He spent his days preparing his men for departure, or "assisting" Perdikkas in running cleanup. During the part of the partition Perseus was absent for, Perdikkas had shifted the entire structure of Alexandros' conquerings. Perseus was having trouble understanding it himself, and yet he was being forced to explain it to soldiers.

What he told them went something along the lines of this — Perdikkas was parabasileus with Krateros and Antipatros and Leonnatos. They ruled in the name of the King's unborn son. Various generals and officials of Alexandros' campaigns were made satraps, but most of the satraps the King had established as he conquered Persia, Egypt, and India were left in place. And, of course, Perseus was being assigned to… whatever role he was being assigned to. Perseus usually just told his men that they were putting down rebellions. He assumed that by the time they neared Hellas, there would be a rebellion or two to put down.

Perseus thought that he was the one most upset from the partition. After all, Lysimakhos got Thrace and the all-important crossing at the Hellenespont, Leonnatos got the other side and his little pseudo-King role, Ptolemaios got Egypt, and even though Peithon had to rid himself of part of Media, he got most of the large, wealthy, populous area. Perseus was left with a mission. Not a satrapy, not a power-base. A mission.

But apparently the troops were far more upset than Perseus was. Which, considering how upset Perseus was, was an issue. A big one.

They were angry on multiple fronts, but the main issue Perseus gleaned from his conversations was about Alexandros' child. The army was traditionally called upon to choose the new King, but in this circumstance, with no clear heir, none of the elite felt ready to have the army choose someone potentially outside of the royal family. Or worse, choose Arrhidaios.

But that's who they were clamoring for. Perseus had put the spear through Meleagros' head, a vision that still haunted him, yet the cries for the half-wit to become King only grew with the partition. If Perseus wasn't preparing his men to leave, he was confronting protestors, trying to calm tensions. It didn't help that Perseus himself was furious with Perdikkas. There were times when he felt like it might be best to side with the protestors.

But Alexandros was his King, and his son would also be his King. No illegitimate bastard King, no half-wit King. Pure and simple, Alexandros' son would be the King. Rhoxana was coming along well. Her mood had improved after reports came in from Susa that Stateira and Polysatis were dead. Freak accident, the letters had claimed. One fainted in her balcony, heat-stroke. The other died after a particularly nasty meal. Perdikkas had used it to claim that the gods had spoken in favor of Rhoxana. Nasty rumors circulated among the men that the Queen had had her rivals killed. Perseus was particularly disinclined to believe those.

And, among all of this shit-show, Ptolemaios only made it worse. With his near-constant meetings and dinners, Perseus had stopped asking Ethandros to prepare dinner in his room. Yes, some were fun — Ptolemaios and Thais had held an orgy the night of the partition which Perseus used to get his anger out, productively — but mostly they were infuriating. Either they were too boring, going over administrative details about Egypt that Perseus wasn't sure he needed to attend, or they were discussing strategy to counter Perdikkas. Perseus felt left out as Lysimakhos and Ptolemaios discussed their holdings, as Nearkhos came and went, fretting about what he wanted to do with his life. All of it made Perseus want to rip his hair out.

Perseus had been forced into one of the worst positions of his life. His King — his friend, his mentor, his lover — was gone, and with it all of Perseus' political ambitions and dreams. He was forced onto an assignment where he was to be subservient to a man that did not like him and left without any agency. And he was forced to be a mediator between an army and an officious regent. Perseus had no time for schemes or ambition. He barely had time to breathe.

But for the rest of them, their King's death had given them all the space in the world for their ambition and schemes to grow. It was sickening.

* * *

**THE SIGNET-BEARER**

* * *

There were things that sent Perdikkas into spirals, even when he didn't have to deal with the weight of the world. Some of those things included little disturbances – his meal was overcooked, his wine was spilled, he made a stupid mistake in a spar. However, those were all things that could destroy the flow of a single day, perhaps two at most. None of those things could match the intense, burning hatred that coursed through him whenever Alexandros would pass him over. Whenever one of the other somatophylakes beat him in a sparring match in front of the King. Whenever he would overhear hints of discontent sent his way. Those were things Perdikkas could not handle.

And so these rumors, carried with swift evil across the camp, spreading through the city, enraged the general. No, he might not have been the most athletic of the somatophylakes, that honor belonged to Perseus or Leonnatos. But great feats of athleticism mattered little in a new world ruled by men of wisdom and intelligence. This was a world ruled not by strength of body but strength of the mind. Aye, armies mattered, but only insofar as to how they might be used by a smart mind.

That was his advantage. Perdikkas knew that he was the smartest man in any room in Babylon – at this point, any room in the world. He had the most experience, the most cunning, the most drive, the best teaching. He had the best pedigree out of every man remaining – Ptolemy was the son of a whore. Perseus was the son of… what exactly no one knew. He was an orphan. Whether his parents were vagabond minstrels or eloping nobles, it mattered little. He had no claim to the throne.

True, besides the ring in his hands, Perdikkas had no familial claim either. Perdikkas did not need the throne, unlike his friends. Perdikkas had the ring, and for the next decade he would be the keeper of the Throne, the King Without A Name. Not that he needed a name. He just needed the power. The power to keep himself safe, his head on his shoulders. Perdikkas could feel the others bearing down on him, desperately looking for weakness. Even Perseus now, with these rumors, must have been smelling blood. The sharks were in the water.

If there was one person Perdikkas might have hated more than Ptolemaios, it would be Perseus. Not that he did, for Perdikkas' hatred for the meek general was insurmountable. But Perseus came close to scaling that peak. The young warrior was too brash, too unpredictable, too uncontrollable. Ironic, for a man trained to be the King's attack dog. Perhaps the King took his leash to the grave.

After the Meleagros incident, Perseus had mellowed out a bit. Not considerably, simply a bit. He no longer barked back at the hand that fed him, instead opting to simply distrust it. Perdikkas had gone out of his way to show Perseus who was in charge and the younger man finally accepted his place. With the King gone, the pretty boy was without any backers. Ptolemaios would gut his young mentor on the altar if it meant favorable winds. The Queen Mother and Grandmother would grumble, but neither had any protection of their own. The rest of the generals would be as glad to see Perseus gone as much as he would.

For now, however, he would keep Perseus in line. If the boy died quashing rebellions in Hellas, Perdikkas was without another rival. If he succeeded, he would help Perdikkas maintain stability. There was a part of Perdikkas that was quite excited to hear about Perseus' attempts at keeping control of the most annoying of cities. He wouldn't be surprised if the boy razed a city out of anger. It was a trait he shared with the King.

Yes, sending the boy to Hellas was a win-win for Perdikkas. The boy was too loyal to the throne – and to Rhoxanna for that matter – to attempt any undermining of Perdikkas now that he had sided firmly with the soon-to-be Queen Mother.

Giving Ptolemaios Aegyptos was a whole other story. It was a lose-lose, really. Perdikkas had tried to think of ways to get the other general out of the way, but there was no use. Too much discontent, too many power grabs, and the troops would walk away. Perdikkas knew he was only a tentative regent for now. He held power because the King's body was still warm. The colder it got, the colder the flame of his memory got, the less respect he would command from the infantry. So he needed to seem like a unifying force, not a power-hungry monster.

And Ptolemaios was not alone in Aegyptos. Kleomenes was still there. The brute wanted the riches of the ancient Pharaohs more, maybe, than Ptolemaios. He would fight tooth and claw to keep his seat of power. And for that, Kleomenes would beg for Perdikkas' backing. If Kleomenes lost popularity for hurting a somatophylax, then it would be easy for Ptolemaios to pull back his approval and give Aegyptos over to someone else – his aide Seleukos, perhaps.

As for Lysimakhos, the last possible thorn in his side still in Babylon, Perdikkas had felt he had relegated him to an equally rough and contentious assignment in Thrakia. The Thrakians were notoriously difficult to govern, and lacked any cities to govern from. Control of the Hellenespont, however, would be enough of a prize, plus the gold mines in Thrakia, that Lysimakhos should be content for now.

His allies Perdikkas felt a lot better about. Peithon was absolutely giddy about Media. Leonnatos was upset that he didn't get to be co-regent, but the younger man seemed to understand the reasoning behind Perdikkas decision. The regent was sure he could count on his support come any dispute between him and Ptolemaios. Or Antipatros.

Antipatros and Krateros were wild-cards. Both men were of the old-guard. Both men greatly respected the dynasty. Both men commanded more respect from rank-and-file troops than any man in Babylon. Both men were very proud and would not be happy with a meager allotment of the spoils of Alexandros' victories. But both men would have to come to respect Perdikkas' new place atop the world. Aye, he would give them the title of power. They would not, however, be allowed to march in Asia with any substantial number of troops at their back. They did not even want to be in Asia anyways.

Perdikkas was far more paranoid about Ptolemaios than he was Antipatros or Krateros, though they were much bigger threats. If Ptolemaios tried to overthrow him, he could gain Antigonos or Krateros – or both – as allies. Since Antipatros and Kraters were so much part of the old guard, he knew everyone in Babylon would close ranks to keep Antipatros or the Silver General out. From gaining control of the empire they had worked so hard to build. They all shared a vision for the future, a vision given to them by the King. Those two men did not share that vision. He was counting on that.

* * *

**A SILVER GENERAL**

* * *

His opponent considered his next move. Meliton was a shrewd planner. His move would not come unless Meliton believed it was the absolute best move.

Which could take him a long time to figure out, and Krateros was running out of patience.

"The King will have conquered another continent by the time you make your move."

"He might." Meliton gave the older man little attention. Krateros groaned and stroked his sword hilt. He loved the younger man, truly he did. Meliton was as smart as they came and as humble as Krateros could ask for. The man had little ambition. At best he wanted more gold. Krateros could provide him with more gold more easily than a promotion.

Meliton was a boy in his camp, truly. Most of the men Krateros had with him were of an age maybe ten years younger than he — that is to say not that young. The youngest were probably closer to the King's age and the oldest his own age of forty. All were seasoned veterans of war, having marched originally with Philip against the rest of Hellas. So Meliton's young age of seven-and-twenty was truly infantile. Giving him a promotion, especially when he had not handed out one since the march began, would cause an uproar.

Not that the boy looked as much. His face was as boring as his ambition, but not unkind to look upon. He had gained a crooked nose from a mother, Krateros assumed. Green eyes came from his father, Meliton claimed. There was a thick beard resting upon his neck and chin, giving him another ten years of age. A deep scar ran down his cheek. It was a dagger cut, sustained in a desperate fight against a tribal warlord near Kilikia. The barbarian had, Meliton said, cut through his cheek. The wound had apparently taken over a month to heal. Meliton had been confined to eating only soft foods; the well-known gourmet barely hid his displeasure at the punishment.

That was when Krateros had first met the strategist. The groaning and complaining about his lack of chewable food nearly led to his dismissal, but the two men had formed a fortunate bond over board games. Meliton was the first person since Ptolemaios who had a chance of beating him. It was a refreshing change of pace.

The boy finally made his move. And for all of that waiting, the move was ridiculously simple. It set up nothing in the future and achieved nothing in the immediate. "I'm ashamed," Krateros joked. "Seriously ashamed to call you my pupil."

"I'm simply waiting for you, dear mentor." The kid looked up from the board. His face betrayed the joy he got from playing this game. There was a treacherous smile stretching across his lips. His pink lips twitched with enjoyment.

"Never wait," Krateros replied, as the older man took a beneficial move. "If you wait in battle, you get cut down."

"In a spar, sure." Meliton surveiled the field, then made a quick move that knocked back most of Krateros' gains. "But on a battlefield it's better to let your opponent make a mistake, no?"

Krateros chuckled. "At what cost? Your men's lives?"

"Not all of their lives. Not even most of their lives. Most of their lives would be a defeat. A victory means saving lives."

"And what about those victories that are not victories?"

"What do you mean?"

"When you win the battle but have lost too many men to justify continuing?"

"Then we have stopped the enemy from reaching their goal. Isn't that enough?"

"Depends on the goals."

Meliton raised an understanding eyebrow, before getting back to the game. "Out of all the moves you can make," the younger man, wiser than his age suggested, "won't the one you chose always be the wrong one?"

"How so?"

"Because it's the one that exists, it's the one with the problems and the one you have to deal with."

"That's the burden of a leader." The two men took a break from their game to analyze one another. For all that Krateros' enjoyed the younger man's company, he was still unsure as to what the Khalkidian wanted from him. As far as Krateros could tell, Meliton was not from a royal family, nor was he from any sort of family. He was just Meliton, son of some nameless fuck from Stageira.

It seemed to Krateros that Meliton wanted glory. If the general was forced to choose a reasoning for why Meliton was in Asia, that would be it. He wanted the singers and poets and playwrights to remember his name, like they were sure to remember the King's. There was something unsettling about the lengths to which Meliton seemed to be willing to go to achieve his glory. That unsettling factor kept Krateros' watching over the young Khalkidian's shoulder. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and potential enemies as friends.

"And here I was, thinking that the best part of being a leader was burdening others."

"Even if you hand off responsibilities to others, it is still your decision to hand those responsibilities over, and you are still accountable for that decision."

The man made a quick defensive move, hovering over the table for a moment before leaning back in the chair. "And all you have to do is hold others accountable."

"Easier than it seems, trust me."

Meliton smirked, reaching for the cup of wine. "I guess. I'm more than happy to sit here and make up battle strategies while you take all the responsibility."

Krateros snorted. "Well yes of course you are."

The two men shared a chuckle. They reached out to continue their game when the tent flap burst open. A messenger, even younger than Meliton, stumbled in, completely out of breath.

"What is the meaning of this?" Krateros growled, upset by the completely out-of-order way the angelos had burst in.

"I…" the messenger looked down at his hands, at the missive he held in them. He looked afraid, but Krateros chalked that up to being in front of an imposing, angry general. "I have a message from Babylon. It's urgent."

"Then leave it urgently," Meliton said. His voice was as annoyed as Krateros' felt.

"I can't… I can't say the words out loud."

"If you barged into my tent without warning you better be brave enough to —"

The messenger shook his head, unwilling. With shaky hands, he reached out the scroll. Krateros eyed the angelos warily, but snatched it up. He unwrapped the scroll, the rough parchment rolling beneath his fingers. But even as he eyed the first words of the scroll, his heart dropped. Not only to the bottom of his chest, but it felt like it left his very body. He felt sick. Krateros lurched away from the table, throwing the scroll across the room.

"You l…" the final word, the accusation of treason fell from Krateros' lips. He could see it in the messenger's eyes. There was no lie. There was no falsehood. This was the brutal truth, cursed by Apollo.

Krateros barely registered Meliton's look of discontent at reading the scroll.

γράφω φρανοῖν, ὦ Κρατερὲ, τὸν Ἀλέχανδρον τὸν Βασιλεὶν τῆς Μακεδονίας τὸν στρατηγὸν αὐτοκράτορα τῆς Ἐλλάδος τὸν φέρωνα τῆς Αἴγυπτου τὸν Κύριον τῆς Ἀσίας τεθνήκεναι.

It was longer than it seemed. A list of superfluous titles obscured the words that really mattered. Alexandron tethnekenai. Alexander had died. Alexander, king of Macedon and of the rest of the known world, was dead.

It was a blow that he had not expected and was not expected for quite some time. As much as Krateros, of all people, knew that Alexandros was fallible and more than human. But still, the King had an undeniable sense of immortality surrounding him. The King couldn't just… die.

But he was. And for everything that Krateros knew, he couldn't fathom it.

"Sir, I –" Meliton tried to interrupt Krateros' thoughts, but the older general wouldn't have it.

"Leave. Both of you."

"I apolog–"

"OUT!"

Krateros slammed his fist against the table, kneeling down. His body slumped against the table and his head fell to the surface.

* * *

**Π**

* * *

**Well, hello there.**

**So, this will be the last chapter I post to this account. I probably won't delete this account just yet, just to confirm the account that posts this story next. Be on the lookout for that. Beyond that, I hope y'all are doing fine in the end of the world. Hope y'all enjoyed.**

**Striving to provide Southern hospitality the world over,**

**LoverBoi (yes, I'm a guy)**


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